


Logical Fallacy

by The_Winter_Straw



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Q (James Bond), F/M, Fluff, Humor, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Sexual Situations, Slice of Life, collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-07-10 07:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 46
Words: 40,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19901839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Winter_Straw/pseuds/The_Winter_Straw
Summary: Q's got one hundred and two problems.His girlfriend is, technically speaking, every single one.In response to the "102 Things A Guy Should Know About Girls" challenge by Miss Chocobo on Lunaescence Archives.





	1. Cheating Conventions

**Author's Note:**

> Way back in the year 2013, I was dragged against my will to a showing of _Skyfall_ while on vacation with my family. I had no experience with the _James Bond_ franchise outside of my parents watching a marathon of the old, old movies during a different vacation when I was in elementary school. I expected to hate the film. Instead, by the time the opening credits rolled, I was completely in love.
> 
> That being said, I do not consider myself a _serious_ fan of the series. I've only ever bothered to watch the rest of the Craig movies, and decided after trying to slog my way through the book version of _Casino Royale_ that I would rather light the written James Bond on fire than read any of Fleming's other works. I'm in it for the hot people and the gorgeous cinematography, folks, and this collection is about as silly as they come. I imprinted asexuality onto Q from the start, wanted to write some stories about his adventures with his decidedly-NOT-asexual girlfriend, and this was born. I'm under no delusion that the British Secret Service works this way in reality or in the media I consume. 
> 
> PS. I am not British and I don't know any British people willing to check over my language. I do realize there are several flubs, and as I become aware of them, I do try to fix the problem. Feel free to inform me of any you find!

**Rule #1: Do not cheat on a girl. We girls talk, we WILL know, and we WILL find out, and we WILL dump you!**

Moving MI6 Headquarters to its new location was not an easy task. Perimeters needed to be checked and monitored; workmen needed to be constantly identified; cords needed to be untangled; outlets needed to be found; passwords needed to be confirmed for security. And who do you think had to do all this work? The Quartermaster. Of course.

And the field agents thought _they_ had it bad? Hardly, Q thought as, at last, well past the end of his shift, he was able to throw on his jacket and head toward the door. He could barely suppress a snort at imagining Bond’s excuses:

“I blew up a train today, Q. I think that takes a little more time and investment. Now run along and fetch me a pair of shoe phones.”

“Mr. Bond has never once requested Q Branch give him a pair of shoe phones,” said a voice to Q’s left. He stopped, his gaze arrested on the professional beige carpeting. He had not, of course, intended to say that aloud. After a brief moment of embarrassment, he turned his head to look at the secretary smirking at him from behind her desk.

“It was a turn of phrase,” he answered flatly. 

Miss Moneypenny only rolled her eyes and shook her head. “He’ll have something to say about that if he overhears you.”

“He’s in Bosnia. Unless he’s developed super human hearing now, there’s no possible way he’d be able to overhear.”

“It was a turn of phrase. At any rate,” she glanced back down at her admirably neat stack of paperwork, “you have a visitor.”

“A visitor?” Q frowned, but only had to look at the chair next to Miss Moneypenny’s desk to spot who she was speaking of. His girlfriend lounged there, looking quite at home with her legs over one arm of the furniture. “[Name].” Q’s fingers twiddled impatiently against the strap of his messenger bag. “What _are_ you doing here?”

You did not bother greeting him. Instead, you simply got to your feet and said, “You were late coming home.”

“Yes, it’s hard all around. But you shouldn’t’ve come.”

“Well, I came anyway,” you said primly. “And Eve didn’t seem to mind. We were having a comfortable little chat before you came along to ruin it with all your moping.”

His mouth fell open a little in silent protest, and yet again Q glanced at Miss Moneypenny. She, however, didn’t seem to find anything wrong with an employee’s girlfriend sitting uselessly by the entrance. “You do tend to mope about,” she said after a brief pause.

“That’s not the point.” Q reached out and grabbed your wrist. “Come along. We mustn’t bother her anymore. Miss Moneypenny has work to do.”

“And she’s staying later than you to finish it,” Miss Moneypenny said. He ignored this jab as he tugged you toward the door. You tripped after him with very little hesitation.

“Good evening, Miss Moneypenny,” Q said over his shoulder.

“Bye, Eve!”

“Goodnight to you both. Stay safe going home.”

Outside, the sky was already dark. The lateness of the hour at least meant the roads were less crowded, but Q still had something of a difficult time trying to maneuver both himself and you through the herd. During a moment he wasn’t paying attention, you somehow managed to move your wrist from his grip and slip your hand in in its place. He did not bother to correct the situation.

Your hand remained firmly in Q’s grasp all the way to the tube. Of course, he realized he shouldn’t be so angry, but he was already on thin ice after the whole "allowing Silva to hack the underground headquarters" fiasco. If his girlfriend got in trouble for a security breech, he could _reallyand_ try to get some sleep before repeating the entire day. Apparently you could tell that he wasn’t particularly interested in pursuing your story, because you continued without prompting, “She told me you’ve been chatting up someone else.”

The words took a moment to register, and when they did, Q couldn’t be bothered to feel too much emotion.

“Forgive me, but…what?” he asked.

“She says one of the field operators has been very _cordial_ with you as of late.”

This caused him to color a bit. “What—but—I would never—” He had to take a deep breath to stop the stuttering. “I don’t know what ridiculous rumors Miss Moneypenny has been listening to, but Mr. Bond and I are _not_ involved.”

You smiled cheekily at that, as you always did the when the subject of Q and Bond’s so-called secret affair came up. If he didn’t know better, he’d accuse you of starting the rumor yourself. In fact, seeing as how you were in such good graces with the secretary, maybe you had. But you shook your head as the pair of you stepped on to the train.

“Not Mr. Bond. A female agent. Good looking, too, by the sound of it.”

“Well, that could be anyone.”

“Anyone?”

“I do interact with quite a few females, and it’s not as if the women at MI6 are never hired for their _looks_.”

“Miss Moneypenny said the woman found you attractive. I only brought the situation up because I wondered if I should be worried about the competition."

“Are you breaking up with me?” He could not help the obviously hopeful note that crept into his voice. Your eyebrows lifted at it as well, but Q only looked steadily down at you. It was not as if he could pretend not having a girlfriend wouldn’t go a long way in clearing his busy schedule.

“No, of course not," you said. 

“Ah.” Q looked away with his fingers still wrapped around a nearby pole. He supposed he had not really expected you to break up with him over something like that. You’d been around for three years, after all. Likely you would not be removed from your post so easily.

The compartment chugged along and Q allowed himself, for a moment, to get lost in the chatter of the other pedestrians. No worries here. No fear that the Russians would invade at any moment. It was quite enjoyable, especially at the end of the hard day, when it occurred to him that _he_ was part of that safety net. But then he supposed he had left you to yourself for too long. After all, he didn't want you getting any dangerous ideas.

“Why not?”

“Why not what?” you asked as you watched the cement rush by.

“Why aren’t you breaking up with me?”

You pressed the corners of your lips down and regarded Q for a moment. He waited, not particularly in anticipation, but quietly.

“I had to put your hands on my breasts to spell out to you that I wanted to go on a date,” you answered. “Do you really think I believe you could tell when a woman was flirting with you at work?”

Q stared. There you went, managing it again: striking him completely speechless. He could feel his Adam’s apple bobbing with broken arguments. “I am _not_ that oblivious,” he managed at last.

“Yes, you are not.”

“No, I am not.”

“Yes, you are,” you sang as the subway doors slid open and you darted back into the crowd.

"No," Q said firmly as he followed you out of the station, "I am not."

But no matter what he said, it didn’t matter. The parameters of the relationship were too well defined, and your view of him could not be shaken. It didn’t stop him from trying, though. The pair of you bickered all the way home.


	2. Friendly Fire

**Rule #2: Be aware of all your girlfriend’s guy friends, brothers, fathers, etc. They are protective. Every single male friend or relative she has will kick your ass if you end up hurting her.**

“Bowling. How did you trick me into going _bowling_?”

You stopped bouncing up and down on the balls of your feet long enough to throw a glare in Q’s direction. “It’s not bowling,” you answered. “We’re here to see our friends from university.”

“In a bowling alley. Where we will bowl,” he pointed out.

“Having fun isn’t a travesty, you know.” You shoved your hands in the pockets of your jacket and frowned up at him. The both of you stood in the alley parking lot. As Q wasn’t in any particular hurry to get inside, he stopped to look at you. “Which reminds me–No computer while we’re in there.”

“What?” Q shook his head and folded his hand protectively in front of his bag. “I have work to do!”

“Alton, you need a break. You’ve been working until past midnight for the last two weeks.”

“How else am I supposed to get anything done?”

“Maybe you should start deferring jobs to your underlings.”

“Right, because _you_ would know how to handle a job.”

“Hey!” you snapped. “I _have_ a job.”

Q looked away with a snort. “Graphic design.”

“Excuse me?”

This was an argument that Q did not want to have. He was already stressed out enough about having to see everyone he’d spent his university days with. Exuberance had never been Q’s forte, in any capacity. So, as he lifted his eyes skyward, he gave you a muttered, “Nothing,” then added more loudly, “Let’s just get this over with.”

“That’s the spirit!” As always, you bounced right back to overly cheerful. You spun around and raced inside, leaving Q to shuffle slowly after you. And highly concentrated annoyance in three…two…one…

“Alton!”

He could not help wincing. Several months of going by “Q” to nearly everyone outside of you made the sound of his birth name almost obscene. Besides that, Q found himself quite suddenly surrounded by a tangle of arms, all of which seemed intent on slapping him on the back.

“Yes, yes, hello,” Q said as he adjusted his glasses. Of course you _would_ disappear on him when he most needed you. He tried to break through the wall of limbs enough that he could spot you somwhere in the mess, but several thick hands grabbed his arm and pulled him backward. “Ack!”

“Hey, where are you going?” A beefy man with a scraggly beard grinned down at him–Dallin, if Q remembered correctly. And the ginger beside him was probably Talbot. Q wrenched himself free and adjusted his tie before answering:

“I need to find [Name].”

Dallin turned Q forcefully toward the counter and pointed. “She’s right over there, ordering the games!” Q nodded, though he knew his expression was not one of relief. At least the couple standing with you–maybe Granger and Hallie?–weren’t physically assaulting _you_. He took a step back so he could better see his attackers clearly.

“Ah, [Name],” said Talbot as he watched you clapping excitedly at something Hallie said. “Grew up to be quite a looker, didn’t she?”

Q shrugged. He hardly noticed women enough to be able to compare you to others. Neither of them seemed to expect him to respond, however.

“Yeah,” said Dallin, then he looked over at Q in a manner that nearly made him jump. “You know, I was real into her back in our university days. I was going to ask her out. But man, she was so into you. Wouldn’t even look at another guy.”

“She–She was?” Q twiddled with his glasses again, unsure of how to respond to such a statement.

“Totally,” said Talbot, finally taking his eyes off of your back. “She flirted with you for five months before she got desperate enough to do that whole breast thing.”

“I…” Q cleared his throat uncomfortably and threw a look toward you. Of course, you _would_ have had to figure out how to start a relationship in the most public and embarrassing way possible for him. “I didn’t realize.”

Dallin boomed out a laugh. “Of course you didn’t! Wouldn’t look away from a screen for more than ten minutes then, either!”

“You’re a lucky man. She’s a nice girl.” Talbot nodded.

“I suppose,” Q said, but then Dallin slapped him on the back. The force of the blow knocked the wind and the rest of Q’s words from him.

“Which reminds me!” Dallin said as he looked at you over Q’s head. You took a pair of dilapidated shoes from the counter and started back toward Q’s little group. Then Dallin got quite close to his ear to whisper, “We’re fond of her, we are. Wouldn’t want her to go back to pining after you.”

Q tried not to betray his intimidation as he forced himself to look straight into Dallin’s eyes. “So?”

“So don’t break her heart.”

“Or we’ll break your nice little tablet,” Dallin added.

“Hey guys,” you broke in to say. “You ready for a game?”

Both men nudged Q none-too-softly in the ribs. “We were born ready, [Name].” Dallin motioned toward a far lane and you skipped after him without another word. Q and Talbot watched the two of you wander over. Talbot laughed.

“We’re just kidding, Alton,” he said as he trailed after Granger and Hallie. “Just keep her happy.”

Q’s eyes drifted toward your back before he followed himself. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”


	3. Always the Tone of Surprise

**Rule #3: Never miss an opportunity to tell her that she’s beautiful. We girls love that. ******

Another Friday night found Q sitting at his table with his computer and the remains of an old flare gun he’d snagged from work. A white light (specially installed) hummed above his head, though at the moment he was too distracted to pay the noise much attention. He rubbed his pen through his thick, dark hair. None of the online models were up to date. Was he the only one at MI6 that tried to keep up with current information? 

Q released a long-held sigh and allowed his head to fall backwards. With one hand, he removed his glasses, and with the other he rubbed his now-naked eyes. How long had he been working on blueprints for a smaller model? A move of the curtains showed Q a pitch-black sky outside the window. Probably near midnight, then, or past it. 

****

****

He threw his work a regretful look. Even after missing out on dinner with your family, he hadn’t had enough time to do what he wanted. If he didn’t stop now, though, he’d probably fall asleep at the table–and who knew what kind of damage that could do to his keyboard? 

It was with a heavy heart that he shut down the computer, closed it gently, and flicked off his overhead light. He shambled down the hallway, toward the bedroom and his pajamas, with his mind still on his work. If he could just figure out the calculations for incorporating the flare into a less conspicuous container, then that assignment, at least, would be done. 

Unfortunately, just as he might have thought of something, the front door to the flat clicked open to distract him. You stepped through, didn’t even notice Q, and proceeded to turn to lock the door behind you. Turning back, you ran your fingers down a loose lock of hair before taking two steps forward–only to blink upon finding his legs blocking your way. 

“I thought you were already home,” he said, after your eyes had traveled up to his face.<

“Yes, well.” You smiled and palmed the top of your head. Q squinted at your hair and realized it was quite soaked. “You know how my family tends to prattle on. I see them so infrequently that I couldn’t really excuse myself. Did you finish your project?” 

Q pursed his lips together, feeling a light flush at your gentle reminder that _he_ had been invited to the party as well. “No, I…It’s coming along well, though,” he said defensively. 

You rolled your eyes toward the ceiling. “I know that was more important, Alton.” A small shiver racked up your body. “Besides, I wouldn’t have made you come even if you didn’t have work to do.” 

“You…wouldn’t? 

You shook your head. “No. Besides, they’re really mean to you.” 

This was unequivocally true, though Q wouldn’t label your family’s behavior as "mean," exactly. They just didn’t seem to comprehend why their daughter was in such a serious relationship with a man that could not bench press his own body weight when the _rest_ of their children of marrying age had made physically understandable matches. _How_ stealing his gadgets and trying their hardest to break them was supposed to help matters, Q did not understand himself. 

It wasn't something he had ever thought you’d noticed–or cared about. The subtle kindness of the gesture threw Q off, so his next question was only in the hopes of changing the subject of conversation: 

“So why are you all wet?” 

“Victoria and I went swimming to get away from the parents for a while,” you said, referring to one of your many cousins. Had he met this one? Impossible to tell. “And I _know_ I’m not supposed to drip on the floor in here, but in my defense, I thought you’d still be working in your office and that I could get away with dripping until I got to the bathroom.” 

“I’d have noticed the watermarks later.” 

“I know.” A very pronounced yawn followed this statement. “I must look a right wreck. I was rather hoping to avoid you seeing me like this.” 

“No, actually.” Maybe it was the lateness of the hour. Q wasn’t quite sure. All he knew was he cleared his throat once and looked away before adding, “You look rather fetching with your hair like that.” 

There was a long pause. Then you laughed, loudly enough that Q felt obligated to look back at your face. “Well, next time you should come along and we’ll all go swimming together.” 

“I’d rather not. I know you didn't take a bathing suit with you.” 

“Suit yourself. There _are_ alternatives.” 

“Such as?” Q asked as you walked past him into the hallway. You looked back at him before opening the door to the bathroom. 

“I get naked and wet in the shower, too,” you answered. A smirk stretched across your features as Q realized what you were implying and turned a delicate shade of pink. 


	4. Some Kind of Abuse

**Rule #4: If she slapped you hard, you probably deserved it.**

Q, despite the insistent nickname, was not the _only_ Quartermaster for MI6. There was, to be sure, an entire department of them. He Q himself was in charge of a subdivision, even at his relatively young age. The position had its perks, surely–like being able to pick which assignments he personally wanted to do–but it also meant a lot of weight being thrust upon his shoulders at frequent intervals.

“Are you positive you’ve managed to hone in on the correct tracking device this time?”

He did not look behind himself to see what M’s facial expression was. Q’s eyes remained glued to the large screen hanging from the ceiling, detailing a lit up map with several blinking circles traversing about the street lines. This was his first big job since the travesty that had been the Skyfall mission, and, though not life or death, he did not want to mess anything up in front of M.

“Yes, sir,” he answered promptly. “The last one wasn’t missing, so much as just taken to the wrong vehicle. I promise, everything is placed properly at this time.”

“Good. And you believe the agent has got on the truck we need?”

“I know they have. That vehicle,” Q zoomed in on the red flashing dot, “is headed to the unloading point as we speak. Meanwhile, the enemy has taken the other and is driving it to their set location…presumably.”

“Presumably?”

“There is a bit of error, when it comes to humans. They are somewhat unpredictable.”

M, thankfully, understood this. “Approximate arrival time for our end?”

“Five minutes.”

“Give or take?”

“Two and a half.”

When Q at last glanced at M, the older man nodded. “All right then. At ease. But do make sure to keep an eye on things, in case our friends have decided to take the bait on purpose.”

It was a tiny sting, seeing as Q _had_ been the one to plug Silva’s computer into the MI6 network. But M smiled at him all the same, so it was clear Q was not, at the moment, meant to do anything more than follow the order.

Q bobbed his head once. “Yes, sir.”

Another look at the screen showed that everything–at this point, at least–was still going according to plan. Without taking his eyes away, Q clicked once, then picked up his cup and took a long draught of Earl Grey tea.

This was a mistake, because no sooner had he set the cup down and looked back up at the screen did Q see a webcam image of you in the top right corner. The tea nearly burst from his lips, but he managed to keep it inside and swallow before he spluttered:

“[N-Name]?!”

“Q!” Your use of his code name made it clear that you _knew_ you were video chatting with him at work. That did very little to soothe his nerves, which were now bouncing about his head hard enough that he would certainly have a migraine soon. He could barely read your expression in that tiny window, but could gather enough to know it probably didn't bode well. “Q, are you okay?”

“What do you mean, am I okay?” he asked testily, once he recovered enough to speak. “I’m at work!”

“I know!” you shouted back. “You said you had a big mission and that you’d e-mail me to let me know you were okay but you never e-mailed!”

“I–I never said I would do that!”

“Well, you should have! I was really worried!”

“The mission isn’t even over yet!”

“It’s been five hours!”

“These things don’t happen quickly!”

You fell silent; the tiny image of your face narrowed its eyes. Then you sat back and folded your arms across your chest. “I’m going to hit you when you get home. For making me worry.”

Some of the tightness in Q’s chest released, now that you had calmed down. “That would be spousal abuse,” he said.

“We’re not even _married_ ,” you snapped.

“Perhaps I’ll propose just to make certain you’ll get the maximum sentence.”

“Excuse me,” M’s voice cut smoothly into the quarrel. Q froze. He had _completely_ forgotten he was at work in a room full of people. “Miss [L Name], we _are_ rather in the middle of an important venture. Would you mind dealing working out your personal issues with Q here this evening?”

Apparently you had forgotten, too. Q had never seen you turn that red before. “Oh my god!” you squeaked. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t arrest me!”

And with that, your video disappeared from his screen. Silence rang, awkward and loud, in the very crowded mission control room. Q could _feel_ the color climbing up his face. He was going to get fired for this one. He just knew it. He spent several very tense minutes feigning interest in the continued movement of his tracking devices–then he felt a large hand on his back.

“Maybe make sure to disable that feature before our next job, hm?” said M.

“Yes, sir,” Q answered shakily. “Of course.”


	5. Date Night

**Rule #5: Do not be afraid of holding her. If she’s going out with you in the first place, it’s obvious that she likes you and wants to be in your arms.**

Date night. That’s what you had called it when you’d spotted Q that evening in the process of making sure that his suit did not have any wrinkles. The two of you went out so rarely–what with him being so busy and the invitation for such parties normally coming from your family–that the idea startled him no small amount.

“And here I thought I’d just be watching _Sherlock_ by myself again!” you said.

Needless to say, you had not reacted very well to his insistence that he was going out with Bond instead of you.

“I thought you didn’t do fieldwork!” you cried.

Normally Q didn’t, but in this case, he _needed_ to be there to monitor the effects of one of Bond’s gas capsules, and to do support work. It wasn’t as though he was _excited_ about diving head first into danger. But then, there was not supposed to be much danger in the assignment, and plenty of civilians would be there, too. M gave the go-ahead, and two hours later, there the two of you were.

It was quite possibly the most idiotic way Q could have imagined to find himself on a balcony with his girlfriend.

“Do you have the data on the upstairs security system yet?”

Not, Q thought to himself as Bond spoke to him via his earpiece for the twelfth time in twenty minutes, that it was much of a date night regardless. He turned and walked to an empty corner, leaving you to continue gazing over the darkened landscape.

“It’s just come in, 007.” He pretended to be very interested in an ornamental plant hanging. “Check your handheld. Shouldn’t be too difficult, so long as you stay according to plan.”

“Because we both know how well that typically works out,” Bond replied.

“Am I ever going to get to meet your super-secret boyfriend?” you called. Thankfully, Bond couldn’t hear this, but Q still motioned for you to be quiet. You shrugged in response, tugged your shawl a little closer around your shoulders, and turned away.

“You brought your girlfriend,” Bond said. Q’s eyes widened. _Had_ Bond heard that? Had he developed superhuman hearing? As if knowing the reaction these words had elicited, Bond chuckled and added, “I can see you through one of the windows. You ought to pay her a little more attention.”

“I’m only ignoring her so I can help you,” Q answered waspishly. 

Bond laughed again. “I’ll be back in contact with you soon. In the meantime, maybe tell her she looks nice.”

“Thank you ever so much for the advice.”

“I _am_ the expert. Show some gratitude, you little welp.”

Q did not bother responding to that, and it seemed that Bond was back to work, as no more jibes came over the intercom. Despite the radio silence, Q still couldn’t bring himself to feel particularly calm. He wasn’t use to field work, and if something happened, it might happen to you as well.

_Of course it won’t,_ he told himself. _You’ve spent days making sure this area was entirely secure. Everything is fine._

Still feeling a little shaky, Q wandered over to your side. You did not look at him, or otherwise make any sign that you noticed he had returned. He wondered what he should do. This wasn’t an ideal date, but what was, with his busy schedule? He could at least show a little affection, he supposed.

“Everything clear for my escape?” Bond interrupted Q’s stream of thought to ask. You looked up and your eyes met his. Q remained silent for a moment, then drew you to his chest and wrapped his arms around you.

“All clear,” he answered as you smiled gently up at him. “And _do_ try not to make an entrance.”


	6. Ownership

**Rule #6: Every girl should eventually get three things from her boyfriend: a stuffed animal, one of his sweatshirts or hoodies, and a really pretty piece of jewelry.**

Q never could quite figure out how he had obtained a flatmate. You stayed the night every so often; then one day you just didn’t go home after. Over the course of a single week, pieces of your personal life started appearing in his: a television in the living room, real food in the kitchen cabinets, feminine hygiene products in the medicine cabinet.

You’d been there ever since.

For the most part, it wasn’t too bad a setup. On the odd days that you actually had a paid job, you gave what you could for rent. The food situation had definitely improved as well. When left to his own devices, Q tended to just entirely forget to eat. And now there was at least one person there that knew how to handle the various servicemen needed to repair the plumbing.

That didn’t mean the living situation was _all_ good, though, as evidenced by your inane concept of “spring cleaning.” Q himself liked a clean house. _Your_ idea of an annual wipe down consisted of rummaging through all the cabinets for things you could steal.

“Hey, Alton?”

“What is it?” he called back from the couch, where he had his legs stretched out in front of him and a very important report to draw up sitting on his knees. Repeated statements of having no interest in joining you didn’t seem to stop you from trying to interrupt him every five minutes. As the last time you’d spoke up involved your desire for him to see a very large, very dead spider you had unearthed, Q decided to just stay where he was.

“Can I have this?”

He looked up to see you framed in the doorway. For a moment, he couldn’t tell what you were asking for. Then he saw the tie in your hands. His gaze fell immediately back to his computer screen.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s _mine_.”

A long silence followed these words. Q could tell you had not left, however. He couldn’t hear you banging about the closet anymore. A minute later, you perched yourself on the couch arm by his feet.

“What does it matter if it’s yours?” you wanted to know. 

Q frowned as he looked up from his work. “Because I purchased it and you did not.” This argument, he knew, would not do much to deter you. “Why do you even want one of my ties?”

You watched your hands sliding over said tie instead of looking at him. “Because it’s yours.”

“What does that mean?”

“You never give me anything.”

“Forgive me, but I would make the claim that I do. I gave you that little plush thing–”

“Because you wanted something else from that crane game and didn’t win it.”

“–and that necklace,” Q continued as if he had not heard your interruption.

“That necklace has a tracking device in it, Alton. That doesn’t count.”

His responding glare did not appear to deter you in the slightest. It happened every time you decided to "clean"–you wanted a thing but Q did not want to give you the thing. _He_ had a well-paying job and liked to spend the money on nice clothes. Your unworkable degree was not Q’s problem.

“Why aren’t you asking for one of my jackets this time?” he asked.

“Because they’re probably full of tracking devices, too. I know you don’t want anyone taking them.”

Q did not deny this. “What makes you think I’ve not done the same to my tie?”

To answer him, you shook the tie vigorously and brought it up to your eyes. “I’m pretty sure it’s too thin for you to do that sort of thing with. At the very least, there isn’t a bomb inside it.”

This was very true. As far as Q could remember–and he was very good at remembering such details–he had done nothing to that particular article of clothing. Of all the various ties Q owned, this was probably the cheapest one.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “You can have the tie. Now will you _please_ let me get back to my report?”

“Thank you!” You swooped down, pecked Q once on the cheek, and then raced back toward the hallway. “I’ll take really good care of it! Promise!”

“Yes, yes.” He had already stopped paying attention. Ten minutes later, and Q could hear the clattering in the closet again. His eyes slid shut with a sigh. Spring, after all, had only just begun.


	7. Company Procedure

**Rule #7: Make sure she gets home safely as often as you can. If you're dropping her off, walk her to the door. If you aren't dropping her off, call to be sure she got home safely. We think that’s really cute and sweet.**

Q couldn’t help himself, walking to work one early morning. He kept looking backwards at every corner, every line in the sidewalk, every crosswalk. Even after his residential building disappeared amidst the London scenery, he looked.

The sky above remained a watery gray. The sun had barely risen. But this morning–of _all_ mornings–you’d got one of your wild hairs and insisted on getting up at five o’ clock to get pancakes. Q had been a nervous wreck all through breakfast (well, of course he was, if that Chinese agent loose in the country broke in during breakfast, how was _he_ supposed to stop him?). Now that he could not see you, however, Q realized he preferred _that_ situation much more than his current.

“You’re being foolish,” he told himself sternly, as once again he glanced over his shoulder. An elderly woman shuffling along with several grocery bags threw Q a look that quite plainly told him she thought him mad for talking to himself. He was in too much of a state to care much what random grandmothers thought about his mental fortitude, though. A brusque nod at her and he was on his way again.

But it didn’t take long for the worry to return. Q actually came to a complete stop and stomped one foot in agitation. “You are a _nobody_ ,” he said aloud, though he knew his ego wouldn’t allow him to fully agree with this statement. “That man has _no_ idea who you are, or where you live. Your encryption of the system makes it impossible for anyone to find your address.”

“First sign of madness, talking to your own ‘ead,” said an obviously drunk man lurking in the entrance of a nearby service street. Q shot him a look of purest venom, then set back on his way with wasps in his stomach.

Perhaps, he thought, he should just _call_ you. Only to make sure you’d manage the short walk on your own from the eatery to the apartment, of course. But then you would probably decide he should make a habit of it. Did Q want to be guilted into calling you every time you left his sight?

No. Definitely not.

_But you’ve been hacked before_ , said that unhelpful little voice inside his head. _Who’s to say it won’t happen this time?_

This time was different–a completely different agent, not at all with a background of computer skill. You would be _fine_ , absolutely fine. But the feeling of worry in his stomach only worsened as he grew closer to work. He couldn’t keep his mind on anything other than the possibility of you getting attacked. At last, the need to concentrate on actual work won out. Q snatched his cellphone from his bag, and hit the speed dial for home before the decision to do so had fully been made.

The line on the other end rang…and rang…and rang some more.

_She’s just doing errands,_ he thought. _Or she went back to bed._

The clenching feeling in Q’s chest grew stronger and stronger as he continued to wait. Two more rings and you would answer. Four more rings, then. Five.

“Hello?”

He felt a little lightheaded at the rush of relief he felt upon hearing your voice. “[Name]?”

“Alton?” you sounded just as confused as Q felt. “What’s wrong? I thought you were at work.”

He ignored this. Now that Q knew you were fine, he was embarrassed by his worrying. “Why didn’t you answer five minutes ago?”

“I was in the middle of sketching something out. Finally got an idea for that hummus packaging design and–”

“So you’re fine then?”

“I’m fine.” You paused. “Why?”

Obviously, he could not give you the details of his fears. “Nothing. I just wanted to make sure you got home all right after breakfast.”

“Why would I not be okay? I’ve made the walk hundreds of times. Is something wrong?”

“No. Nothing at all is wrong.”

“Alton–”

“I’ve got to clock in. Stay safe. Goodbye.”

He hit the end button without waiting to hear your reply. As Q ducked inside the MI6 building, he could not deny the relief he felt at knowing you were, for the moment, perfectly fine.


	8. Chivalry Is Dead

**Rule #8: If a guy is bothering your girlfriend, it is your right to beat the shit out of him.**

Q could tell as soon as you walked through the door that afternoon that something was wrong. Most of the time, the fact that he was home early would elicit no small amount of euphoria on your part. In this case, you did not so much as take note of him sitting in his little side office just by the entrance. You instead moped straight into the kitchen, your purse dragging against the wood floor behind you.

He didn’t let your behavior bother him. After all, these maps needed double-checked for accuracy. Whatever was wrong with you, likely you would soon be over it. No need to concern himself with the matter. The minutes ticked by–could he hear someone sniffling?–but then the sound of water rushing into a pot filled the house.

Try as he might to ignore it, Q could not quite get rid of the niggling sensation that this was not your usual "skinned a knee and my day is ruined" kind of tear. It sounded as if you were banging pans and strainers around the room with a little more force than usual. He lifted his eyes to stare at a framed photograph hanging on the wall opposite. Should he or shouldn’t he?

Should he won out. Q did not want to deal with this longer than absolutely necessary, after all. He put his work down and walked into the kitchen to find you scowling down at a boiling pot of noodles.

“I always thought one made the sauce before the noodles,” he quipped when you did not look up at him, “but then I never was a fair pass at cooking.”

You blinked down at the water, snapped the stove off, and let out a single sob.

“[Name]? What in heaven’s name is going on?”

A swift walk to the sink was all he got for an answer. For a moment, anyway. Then: “Why are you asking? You’re just going to say that you told me so.”

“Only if whatever it is is really stupid.”

You laughed. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant laugh, and he had not meant to be humorous. Still, you turned to face him. He could see your eyelashes clumped together at odd angles. “You know that guy that commissioned me?”

“Yes, the one that needed a band logo?”

“Yeah. _That_ asshole.”

“Asshole?” Q's eyebrows furrowed. “But I thought–”

“He’s refusing to pay me.” When you laughed this time, the sound held a definite bitter edge. You slid down the wall and onto the floor to sit there with your face buried in your hands. Q could not hear you crying, but he could see your shoulders shaking. His hands own found his pockets as he wondered, what _did_ one do with a crying girlfriend?

Slowly, he lowered himself until he was kneeling beside you. “If I promise not to give you a hard time about not being able to help with the rent this month, will you stop crying?”

You dropped your hands to answer him. “You always give me a hard time about not paying the rent.” Your smile was a little rye. 

“Yes, but just this once. If you promise to stop being so upset.”

“You don’t get it!” Now you leaped to your feet, leaving Q to look up at you for a moment before straightening himself. “I _hate_ this. I _want_ to pay rent, you know. I want to be a good girlfriend. But even when I get a job, I don’t make any money!”

“Well, since you did major in art,” Q began, but stopped at the look on your face. He sighed. “What can I do to help you, [Name]?”

“I don’t know. You’re my secret agent boyfriend! Can’t you beat him up for me?”

He could not shake his head quickly enough; Q’s glasses almost flew off. “I don’t think that’s at all advisable, given…my general physique in comparison.”

“Huh.” This time, Q got a genuine chuckle. “Guess my parents were right about the whole 'dating a boy instead of a man' thing.”

“Yes. Quite.” He adjusted his glasses and tried to ignore the insult. Q knew you did not really mean it. You offered him a sad smile for his troubles before pulling out the proper sauce ingredients from the cabinets. Then it occurred to him: “Your friend does not have to go _entirely_ unpunished, however.”

Your eyes widened at him. Perhaps you thought Q would really go try to beat the man up. “Oh. No. I didn’t–”

“I don’t believe a band will be able to perform in timely fashion if a virus takes out every trace of their music planning.”

You continued to gape, but only for about a second. Then you crossed the room and embraced him. “You’re the best boyfriend ever.”

He actually patted you on your back. "At least when I try."


	9. Working Overtime

**Rule #9: If you're talking to a female friend of yours, pull your girlfriend closer. It’ll make her feel secure in the knowledge that you love her more than the other girl.**

Another late night at work, another not-so-mad rush to get out of the building. Q’s thoughts remained focused on the bowl of leftover stew waiting for him in the refrigerator back at his flat. It was Friday, and though the weekend did not mean a pause in his work expectations, at the very least he could get some sleep.

MI6, apparently, had other plans.

“Q!” Miss Moneypenny called, just as he was about to pass her desk to head out the nearby door. His heart sank all the way to his toes. If you were here waiting for him again…

As soon as Q turned, he knew that wasn’t the problem. You were not inside the building–or, at least, you were not speaking with Miss Moneypenny. Confused but relieved, he hunched his shoulders slightly as he walked back over to her desk. “Yes?”

“M has some things he wants you to look over for next Monday.”

He heard the sound of a folder being moved toward him, but Q wasn’t looking. At that very moment, he had seen a flash of familiar color just outside the door. Had you _really_ come all the way here just to lurk around out there? At least you weren’t inside this time, he supposed. 

“Q?”

“Yes, sorry.” He turned his attention back to Miss Moneypenny, took the file, and flipped quickly through it. “Any special instructions about the transport of these materials?”

“Well, obviously he’d rather you not leave them lying about the subway station, but other than that, you’re in the clear. Nothing needs burned, or anything like that.”

“In that case, I’ll be careful with the lighters.” His eyes drifted back over to the door. Upon catching him looking at you, you wiggled your fingers. Too distracted to think properly, Q waved back. “And you’re quite positive you’ll have the results of the testing back at the beginning of next week?”

“We plan to at this stage in the game. What do you keep looking at over there?”

“Oh. [Name].” He shrugged. “She’s been standing outside the door this whole time.”

Miss Moneypenny bent over her desk to look. “Is she worried about us talking?”

As if you could somehow hear the conversation through the soundproofing, you beamed at her and waved much more wildly than you had at Q. He shook his head, but the ends of his lips still curled gently upward. “I doubt it. [Name] isn’t really the jealous type.”

She laughed and waved back at you before settling into her seat. “She seems lovely. Try not to be so busy with her that you forget to finish your work.”

“I would never–” Q felt his ears heat up, but he couldn’t finish the sentence. Luckily, he didn’t have to. Miss Moneypenny chuckled over him.

“It was a _joke_ , Q.” 

Before he could protest this, she waved him toward the door.


	10. Slap Slap Kiss Kiss

**Rule #10: Never, ever slap her, even if it's just in a joking way. Even if she swats you first, and says, "Oh, you're so dumb" or something, never make any retaliation.**

Of all the things that Q liked the best, a quiet flat was probably in the top five. Even if he didn’t have work to do, there was something soothing about only being able to hear himself, his own fingers on his own keyboard. Unfortunately, like most things Q enjoyed…

“Guess who!”

…it never lasted. Your hands covered his eyes at the same time you jumped seemingly out of nowhere. He blinked, a frown already settling onto his face at the thought of having to clean his glasses again.

“[Name],” he sighed. “Not now.”

“Why not now?” The shadow covering his vision disappeared. Somehow, even through the fog of handprints, Q could see you standing in front of him, your hands now on your hips. “Don’t tell me you’re busy. You already said you had a free weekend.”

“I’m not busy. I’m tired.”

You regarded him through half-lidded eyes, then made to sit down on the couch with him without further comment. Q could feel the stiffness in his shoulders loosening...until you gave his cheek a gentle pat. Your fingers lingered against his skin for only a moment, and retreated as soon as Q realized that, though there had been no real force or anger behind the maneuver, you intended it to be a slap.

“You know, Alton,” he looked over to see you with your gaze fixed on the silent television, “for a secret agent, you’re really boring.”

Q choked–a sound half-amused, half insulted. “ _Me_?” he demanded. “I’m boring?”

Finally, you looked at him. “Yes. All you ever do is sit around working on assignments. It’s like nothing exists outside that computer of yours.”

“Oh, and it would be better if I did like you? Avoiding the odd assignments I get until the very last minute?”

You blew your cheeks out for a second before answering. “The muse is a capricious thing, Alton. Like a wild horse.”

“Maybe you should tame your wild horse, then.”

“I know what I’m doing. At the very least I stop working long enough to pay attention to you!”

“I never asked for your attention!”

The two of you fell into a rather huffy silence. Your eyes lingered on his (or, he thought they did; his glasses were still filthy), then slowly slid away, back to the wall above the television. Meanwhile, Q was busy going over the last few weeks in his head. He’d been busy, what with the recent move. That was true. Could he remember any details about _your_ life during the time period?

Q wracked his brain. Something about a hummus package design, that was it. And he never did get to see the finished product. Of course, you might have shown him at some point when he was busy and he hadn't deemed it important enough to save to long-term memory.

“Well, if you’re just going to sit here watching the paint dry,” you said loftily as you stood up, “I think I’ll head to bed.”

Before you could get too far he reached out, taking your wrist. You paused, twisted toward him, but did not have time to form a snappish response. Not even a second later, he had pulled you into his lap.

“If _I’m_ boring, _you’re_ annoying.” You opened your mouth angrily, but Q cut you off with, “I think I like that kind of annoying.”

And he pressed his lips to yours.


	11. Movies and Misconceptions

**Rule #11: Go along with her to a chick flick every once in a while. She doesn't care whether you enjoy it or not; it just matters that you went with her.**

The very next night, Q found himself forcibly dragged to the movie theater.

“I don’t believe I agreed to this outing,” he said as, for the fifth time that evening, he had to adjust his glasses with the hand that wasn’t being held in yours. You did not stop moving forward in the theater lobby, nor did you release Q, but you did turn your head to look at him.

“You said we could go somewhere I wanted tonight because you’ll be busy again come Monday.”

“Yes,” he sighed, “but a _movie_?”

“Alton…” Perhaps you could sense his trepidation. At long last, you let go of his hand. “Just one movie? Please, please, _please_?”

Q looked up at the sky. Just his luck. No answers were spelled out there. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “Well, I suppose it could be worse. You could have decided to take me _bowling_.”

“Yay!” Before he could even fully register what had happened, you had his hand in a vice grip once more. Q very nearly got whiplash from the force you put into tugging him toward a ticket window. “What do you want to see?”

“I have no idea.” Q’s eyes roved over the film titles above the booth. Surely he should have picked up something from listening to whatever you watched on television. But nothing looked familiar. He shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

You nodded vaguely as you reviewed at the titles yourself. Q blinked at the woman in the booth, and she blinked right back. After about a minute of deliberation, you grinned.

"Ah! Can we have two for _Warm Bodies_ , please?”

He hardly paid any attention as he paid for the tickets, followed you to the concessions booth, and allowed you to pull him and a large bucket of popcorn to your seats.

What happened next, as far as Q could tell, was a story about a zombie romancing a living woman. Or maybe he just pretended to until he ate her. But Q himself would never know because no sooner had the two arrived on a plane full of junk then did he fall asleep.

“Alton. Hey! Alton!”

He awoke blearily to your hand shaking his shoulder.

“What’s going on?" he mumbled. "Did someone get eaten?”

“Just that one guy at the beginning of the film,” you answered as Q sat up and started to look around. Why was it so dark? And empty? “Did you manage to stay awake for _any_ of that?”

“You know romantic comedies aren’t my thing,” Q answered around a yawn. You were pushing him upwards and, still half-asleep, he got up and moved with you toward the theater exit.

“I know. I actually wanted to go see _A Good Day to Die Hard_ , but last time we went to a movie like that, you nearly threw up.”

Q flushed. Did you think him a coward? Not that a zombie movie was any better. “I got motion sickness!” he said hotly. 

“I know, Alton.”

He concentrated on making sure to walk correctly until the pair of you made it out of the theater. “Sorry."

“Eh? For what?”

“For falling asleep during the movie.”

You laughed. Having assumed you would be upset with him, Q looked curiously down at you. “Idiot. I’m just happy you came along. It’s nice to have some company sometimes.”

He cocked his head to one side. You smiled. Before he could lose his nerve, Q took your hand gently in his own–and walked that way all the way home.


	12. Casual Acquaintances

**Rule #12: If you're officially dating and you're introducing her to your friends, you'd better introduce her as your girlfriend–or else.**

One of the many unfortunate results of the original MI6 building getting blown to kingdom come was that Q, despite already needing a hub from which to pass out equipment to the field agents, did not have a space at work to call his own yet. This meant quite a lot of varied "exotic" weaponry getting stored in his flat, and frequent calls to leave his home to deliver them.

_Same time, same place._

Q looked around the museum after checking the familiar, nondescript words he had received the day before via text message. When he first started meeting Bond there, the museum had held a certain amount of charm, but he had to admit that now he mostly just worried about appearing there so often. Maybe after Bond’s jaunt to Rio de Janeiro they could relocate to a fair ground.

He sighed and checked his watch. If Bond wasn’t there in less than two minutes, Q would need to find another place in the museum to feign interest in. And what if Bond could not find him there either? With growing impatience, Q rolled his head against the wall and looked off toward a statue exhibit in a room to his right.

Two women stood inside, peering at something so that their backs were turned toward Q. One had long, dark hair, the other [color] hair and a firm grasp on a sketchbook. Then he spotted the bag on the latter’s side, and nearly rubbed his fists into his eyes. What on earth were _you_ doing at the museum? He almost marched across the way to take you by the arm to remove you from the premises. You weren't supposed to see him doing this sort of thing.

Before Q could take said action, someone interrupted him:

“Decided to take up people watching this time around?”

Startled, Q spun quickly around to see Bond smirking down at him. Q scowled as he adjusted his glasses.

“You’re late," he said waspishly.

“An agent is never late, nor is he early.”

“Don’t quote Gandalf at me, especially when I can hazard a guess that frequently isn’t true.” As usual, Bond was not put off by Q’s demeanor. If anything, he was amused by it, almost as if the agent saw Q as some sort of furious kitten. “Do you want your equipment or not?”

“You’d send me on my way with nothing just because of petty disagreement?” Bond’s eyebrows lifted, but it still looked as if he were suppressing an obvious smile. “That’s not very professional of you, Q.”

“Making me sit here wondering if you’re dead isn’t professional either, 007.”

“All right, all right. What have you got for me this time around?”

“Your plane ticket, obviously,” Q answered as he handed over a thin white envelope. “And then–”

“Alton! Hey!”

His eyes slid shut in a wince he hardly cared if Bond noticed. Trotting footsteps forced Q into action. He turned to see you and your cousin Victoria heading straight for him. For one split-second, you beamed, but as soon as you caught sight of the man behind Q, the happiness vanished from your face. You might have even paled a bit, though it was difficult to tell in the museum lighting.

“Oh…” you said.

“[Name],” Q snapped, “what are you doing here?”

Your toes snapped slightly inward as your gaze dropped to the floor. Victoria’s eyes narrowed at Q–though nicer to and more understanding of him than the rest of your family, she generally didn’t take any crap from Q where his treatment of you was concerned.

“Victoria and I just wanted to get out,” you said. Your eyes darted up toward Q, then back to the floor again several times in quick succession. “It gets lonely, staying at home by myself all the time. She thought…she thought seeing some artwork might help inspire me.”

“Problem?” Victoria asked with her arms folded across her chest. Q ignored her. After all, _she_ did not understand the situation. _You_ did.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” you murmured. “I wouldn’t have come if I did.”

A small pang echoed in Q’s chest. He had not told you this was where he went to meet Bond. But still, he couldn’t let you stay without someone at work inquiring as to what you were doing there.

“At least go to another area, [Name],” he said exasperatedly. “I’m _busy_.”

“You’re _always_ busy,” said Victoria. “That’s the problem.”

“Not now, Vick,” you said out of the corner of your mouth.

Q rolled his shoulders back, ready to retort in a way that would get you to run off somewhere. Before he could, Bond stepped up beside him. A flurry of panic set its way through Q’s veins. If Bond was upset by your presence, there would be little chance of Q avoiding repercussions for it. But Bond looked at him and smiled.

“Who’s this, then?” he asked.

Q’s mind ground to a momentary halt. He only had the mental capacity to note that you looked just as startled as he did upon you being addressed. Bond’s smile only widened at his obvious fit of surprise. Q rapidly shook his head and tried to speak:

“Mr. Bond. This is [F Name] [L Name], my…my…”

You grinned and stuck out a hand. “I’m [F Name] [L Name]. Q here is my boyfriend. This my cousin, Victoria [L Name]. And you are?”

After pausing to give Q a look that clearly told the young man Bond thought him ridiculous, Bond took your hand and gave it a firm shake. “Bond,” he answered. “James Bond.”


	13. To the Victor Go the Spoils

**Rule #13: Girls are fragile. Even if you're play fighting, be very gentle. Let her win sometimes.**

Sex was not a common occurrence at Q’s apartment. Perhaps that wasn’t fair to say–it might have brought up ideas of sex frequently happening elsewhere. He should have said that sex was not a common occurrence with _himself_.

It was not as if he _hated_ sex. Far from it. But the activity was not something he frequently thought of, or felt was lacking in his life. He could go months without even thinking about it, and if he did, it was more often with the thought of how messy the whole affair was.

But this was not enough for you, and once in a blue moon Q found himself being pounced on and his clothes being torn off. By that point, he was often enjoying the moment too much to worry about the necessary showers or the cleaning that would need doing since, more often than not, you did not have the wherewithal to drag him to the bed.

Today it was the couch. Q’s sweater had already been thrown carelessly elsewhere; now his tie hung loosely from his neck. Your fingers slipped around the remaining buttons of his shirt, but you definitely weren’t getting anywhere fast. Maybe it would have helped if he stopped kissing you, but it was a little difficult to keep this in mind with your continually bucking your hips up to grind them against him.

Q groaned at your latest effort, all thoughts of getting his shirt off forgotten. Instead, he kissed you again as his free hand squeezed at your breast. You let out a triumphant chuckle as you finished your task. A wide smile flashed up at him; sweat glistened on your brow.

“Hey Alton,” you said in a voice rather raspier than you normally used.

“Mm.” He was too busy nipping at your neck. Maybe if he didn’t make the noise a question, you wouldn’t ruin the moment with gibberish. Unfortunately, that plan didn’t work.

“Do they call you ‘Q’ because you’re a ‘Q-T-pi’?”

His eyes rolled at that one. “[Name], just shut up,” he growled, then lowered his mouth to kiss you again. You lifted your hands and tangled them into his hair. When Q backed away slightly and opened his eyes, you smirked.

“Look who’s trying to be all _dominant_ ,” you said. 

“What do you mean 'trying'?”

Q should not have asked that. Your eyebrows pressed together wickedly, then your hands went to the back of his neck. He wanted to ask what you were doing, but he shortly had his answer. Your lips crashed against his just as you wrapped your legs around his waist and threw yourself off the couch.

He landed on with a gasp on his back. You ran your hands gently up and down his chest while waiting for Q to assess the situation. When he had been quiet long enough, your eyes flicked back up to look into his.

“You were saying?”

“I–” Q licked his lips, then the words spilled out of them even though he knew protesting would do no good. “I _let_ you do that.”

You laughed, then bit his neck. Q sucked in a breath.

“You’re so bloody breakable,” you breathed. “It’s adorable.”

Needless to say, he couldn't really argue with your teeth back on his skin.


	14. Priorities

**Rule #14: Memorize your girlfriend’s birthday. You forget her birthday and you're basically screwed for life. Not gonna lie.**

“Shit! Shit, shit, _shit_!”

Q ran as he had not run since high school gym class. The lateness of the hour made the sidewalk mostly empty, but he still had to do a fair amount of dodging other late-night pedestrians. Taxis trundled by, honking in clear derision of the young man flying past them. He did not even stop to give them his usual disdainful glare.

“Shit!”

His shoes slid against the gravel as he rounded a sharp corner; his hands spread wide to grip the nearby stair banister so that he did not fall entirely. A momentary pause for him to settle his glasses back onto his nose correctly, then he sprinted up the stairs.

The moon left blotchy patches of light on the path beneath his feet. He hardly noticed. It was nearly midnight, and he had not remembered. Of all the days to stay late at work. He’d promised–Well, it didn’t matter _what_ Q had promised. It was far too late to keep that promise now.

He pushed the door to his flat open, breathing heavily. The lamps were on, but everything was quiet. No television. No computer. No iPod speakers. There was mud on the bottoms of Q’s feet, but he didn’t care about tracking it through the house at the moment. Eyes darting around, looking for any sign of life, he closed the door behind himself and started to search.

It didn’t take much time for him to find you. You sat at the kitchen table, head resting on your arms, clearly asleep. Q froze immediately. What was he to do, now that he knew where you were? You were dressed in a very pretty [color] dress, and a lot of work appeared to have gone into your hair.

His eyes slid over to a clock by the window. 11:35. Nervous fingers ran a shaky path through Q’s hair. As tempting as it was to just leave you there until you woke up tomorrow long after he had gone back to work, he knew that wasn’t fair. A deep breath filled his lungs, then he placed his hand on your bare shoulder and gave it a gentle shake.

“Mm.” Your eyelids and lips tightened. He shook a little harder. You inhaled sharply just as your eyes popped open wide. “Alton?” you muttered sleepily.

“Hey,” he said, guilt pooling in his stomach. “What are you doing asleep in the kitchen?”

“I was waiting for you to come for di–” You looked wildly around for the clock. “Dinner! We have to get going! We’ll miss our reservations.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “We already missed our reservations.”

“What do you mean? It’s only–” You caught sight of the darkness outside, and then the clock. “Eleven-forty…”

“[Name]…” Q began. Without looking at him, you got to your feet and gathered your purse from where it had been sitting by your chair. “[Name], I–”

You looked at him and smiled. Q had known you long enough to tell it was not your real smile. “Busy day at work?” To avoid looking at him any longer, you bent down to unlatch the straps on your shoes.

“Yes, but–”

“Sorry you had to wake me up. I’ve gotta go take all this off.” You gestured to your face. “Then you can have the bathroom, if you want it.”

The obvious dismissal thoroughly stopped Q from speaking further. He heard you pad up the carpeted hallway, flick on a light, and walk into the bathroom. He pressed a hand to his forehead and sunk into your recently vacated chair.

“Not such a clever boy,” he whispered. Allowing his mind to drift, he dug absently around in his messenger bag until his fingers found a large, flat box. He pulled it out and gazed at it until he heard the water running in the bathroom stop. _Better now than later,_ he thought grimly, and walked to the bathroom himself.

“[Name].”

“Yes?”

“Are you mad at me?”

You lifted your face from the towel and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Then you let out a sigh and slowly set the towel down. “I’m not _mad_ , Alton.”

“But you’re not happy.”

“Of course not. I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks.” Now Q could hear tears in your voice. Panic made his heart pound a little quicker. He did not like when you cried. He never knew how to handle it. To make matters worse, this time you were crying over _him_. As if you knew how he felt, you looked determinedly away from both him and the mirror. “Ever since you got this MI6 job, you’ve been even busier than usual. I’m just a distraction you wish was gone.”

“I’m flattered that you want my company so badly,” he said hopefully. Your mood, however, didn’t change.

“It was my birthday, Alton,” you whispered. “And you chose work over me _again_.”

This was the one time when Q would definitely admit he screwed up. What good would that do, though? Instead, he lifted his box and waved it so whatever was inside shook.

“It’s still your birthday. 11:58. I know–I meant to be home. I should have been. Do you at least want your present?”

He caught a flash of [color] eyes in the mirror, and then you turned around. “You got me a present?” you asked in a tone that suggested you hardly dared to believe it.

“Of course I got you a present. Did you think I forgot your birthday entirely?”

Your smile was a confession. “A little.”

“Well, I didn’t. So?” Q stepped closer to you and offered the box. You took it and tugged the lid gently open. A gasp slipped from your mouth.

“Oh, Alton.”

He pulled the necklace out and let it hang from his fingers in midair. “This one doesn’t have a tracking device in it,” Q explained.

“I love it already.”

He leaned down to kiss you once on the forehead. “I thought you might.”


	15. Homecoming

**Rule #15: Don't drench yourself in the cologne, but smell good.**

“Come on, Q. Look sharp. We’re about to dock.”

From his post at the ship’s railing, Q lifted his clammy head. Bond stood in a nearby door, outlined by the light of the ship’s interior. It was all Q could do to simply look at him. Glaring, at this point, was too exhausting.

“I am well aware–” But he couldn’t finish that sentence. The boat gave a final heave, and so did Q’s stomach. He bent over to vomit again. Slowly, though still with more movement than Q believed strictly necessary, the boat ground to a halt.

Bond patted Q once on the back. “Next time, bring some Dramamine.”

“Next time?” Q demanded weakly. “I _told_ you all I don’t like traveling!”

“You said you didn’t like to _fly_.” Q did his best to scowl. Unfortunately, this did nothing to Bond except cause him to smirk. “Well, clean yourself up a bit before you get back on land. You wouldn’t want [Name] running away from you in fright.”

In his current state, Q couldn’t manage a quick enough retort. Before he could even opened his mouth to reply, Bond disappeared without so much as a " _see you at work come Monday._ " Q made a face, then leaned over to grab his bag with quavering arms.

How Bond managed to leave so quickly, Q would never know. Though the ship certainly wasn’t carrying a pleasure cruise, enough people crammed its hallways that he was lucky to take one step every five minutes. All the while, the floor bobbed underneath his feet, causing his nausea to roll with the waves.

Outside, the air was clean and cold. More importantly, the ground did not move. Q took several minutes to orient himself before blinking blearily at his surroundings. As much as he hated to admit it, he rather hoped he’d find you waiting for him. He wasn’t sure if he would stumble into the right apartment complex with his thoughts this fuzzy.

And there you were, sitting on a bench, your eyes wide in your face as you watched him from afar. It struck Q at just that moment that this was his first away mission. Two weeks was a long time for him to not see you, and it was a testament to how ill he must have looked that you hadn’t rushed straight up to tackle him. Slowly, he trudged over until he stood a few feet away.

“Hello,” said Q.

“Hi.”

Your fingers beat an anxious tattoo against your seat. Q managed a half-smile. “Go on then. Get it over with.”

It took you less than a second. One moment, you were sitting there, the next you had crashed into his front and thrown your arms around him. After a brief pause, he returned the hug.

“I missed you, too.” He allowed you to stand there with your face buried into his chest for several long minutes. Given the state of things, Q might have left you longer. Then he smelt something familiar–familiar and curious. “Are you wearing my cologne?”

You took a step backward to smile at him sheepishly. “It smells like home.”

“[Name], you have _been_ home the entire time I was gone.”

“Yeah, but,” you shrugged and Q noticed you hadn’t taken your hands off his waist, “it isn’t home without you.”

A reluctant sigh slipped from his lips. Then Q disengaged–but only long enough for him to adjust his bag on his shoulder and take your hand. “Let’s get home then.”


	16. On Thoughtfulness

**Rule #16: You don’t have to spend a million dollars on a gift. It doesn't have to be expensive; it needs to be meaningful.**

“Alton. Hey, Alton!”

Your voice was not enough to completely rouse Q from his slumber. He squeezed his eyes shut a little tighter, to get the sunlight to go away. Even though he knew that wouldn’t be enough for you, he hoped. Five more minutes…

“Alton!” This last exclamation was accompanied by a rough shake of his shoulders. He awoke with a start to see a [Name]-shaped blur with its knees on either side of his hips. The sight and the shock combined were enough to make him cough for a full minute before he could respond:

“What is it?” he asked with barely contained annoyance. 

You, however, were not to be deterred. “It’s nearly nine o’ clock! You're going to be late for work!” Perhaps you threw your arms out with these words. Q couldn’t quite tell; everything was still murky. His exhaustion didn’t help things.

“I’m not going to work today,” he mumbled. Q’s fingers trailed across the nightstand until, at last, he found his glasses. A moment later, he placed them on his face and blinked sleepily up at you. Your now clear features showed obvious confusion. You took a moment to stare at him and then gave his shoulders another hard shake.

“You can’t skip work! They’ll throw you in prison.”

Sleep was apparently not going to return to him. With a sigh, Q slid his legs out from underneath you and placed his feet on the floor. “No,” he said with a yawn. “They wouldn’t go that far. You have a very active imagination, [Name].”

You cocked your head to one side, your eyes wide. “Are you sick?”

As much as Q knew you would love an excuse to make soup, he could not claim to have an illness. He shook his head and barely suppressed a smile as he stood. “I’m not sick.”

“Then–”

“I took the day off, so neither of us will be getting in trouble.”

The look you gave Q was almost comical, especially considering the wild, uncombed hair framing your face and your knees still splayed wide where he used to be lying. Slowly, your eyes narrowed. You lifted a hand to grasp your chin.

“Why would you take the day off?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Q gave a tiny shrug and moved toward the door. “Thought it might be prudent, considering it’s our anniversary and all.”

Your mouth fell wide open, then you bounded across the length of the bed to land at Q’s feet. You could hardly speak for grinning. “You remembered?”

Q smiled and ruffled your hair a bit. “I remembered. And I have the whole day off, so we can spend it together.”

He thought he saw tears in your eyes, but he couldn’t see them for long. You threw your arms around him and broke away only to declare:

“That’s the best present you could have given me.”

“Happy anniversary, [Name].”


	17. Occupational Hazard

**Rule #17: Don’t ever lie to us. We always find out.**

For once in his life, Q did the leading. His hand clutched at yours as he sprinted through the streets. Behind him, he could hear the clatter of your shoes against the pavement. A few passersby threw confused looks at the pair of you, but he ignored them. Time was of the essence.

At last Bond’s new flat appeared before him. Q slowed to a halt in front of the door before turning to look at you. Your eyes were wide in your face, though there didn’t appear to be any tears yet. That was good. Perhaps he would manage to pull this off without alerting you to the true danger you were in.

“Alton,” you said after catching your breath, “Where are you taking me?”

He didn’t answer that. Q kept his gaze focused on your face, as if he was trying to memorize it. “Did you bring your things?”

“Yeah, of course.” You held up the too-light bag hanging off one shoulder. The outlines of the items inside showed clearly through the thin material. Of course. Q told you to grab the essentials, and what did you do? Stuff a sketchpad and a couple of pencils into your overnight bag. Whatever happened to a change of clothes? Or a toothbrush for crying out loud?

But beggars couldn’t be choosers. Besides, Bond slept with enough women. He probably had a few clean toothbrushes to spare. Instead of reprimanding you, Q took a deep breath and placed his hands on your shoulders.

“You’re going to be staying with Mr. Bond for a little while.”

For the first time, fear washed over your features. “But what about–”

“I need to do some things for work. I’ll be fine.”

Without taking your eyes off of Q, you lifted your hands up to your chest. “Doesn’t Mr. Bond need to be there, too?”

“He’s not assigned to this particular mission, no.” _Now_ the tears came. They didn’t roll down your cheeks, but Q could see them pooling against your lower eyelids. When it came down to the wire, you always showed the courage Q so often felt he himself lacked. He gave you a swift hug, then stepped away again. You looked absolutely miserable–but it had to be that way. Q could not, for any reason, explain to you that this was his problem, or why that was. You were in enough danger without knowing the details.

“Is everything okay, Alton?” you whispered.

Q made absolutely certain to meet your eyes as he lied, “Everything is fine.”

He could tell that you did not believe him. Your face drained of all color, but you nodded. Q moved one hand to back to your shoulder, pointing toward the entryway with his other.

“You’ll find Mr. Bond inside. He’ll take care of you. All right?”

A brief sniffle delayed your answer. “All right.”

“Good.” One last, quick kiss to your forehead, and Q was off. “Stay safe.”


	18. Accidental Atrophy

**Rule #18: Don’t say you understand when you don’t. That’s bad.**

It didn’t take long to get Bond pulled in. Two days–that was all Q was given to handle the situation on his own. When his time was up, Bond went off. Without his (completely unregulated) bodyguard work, you were left to be dumped at MI6.

This was stressful for all parties involved. No one really wanted an unqualified citizen wandering around the place, but where else could you go? Leaving you to wander the city alone, or even just stay at your flat, would leave you open to attack, kidnapping, torture.

No one seemed to believe Q when he said he hadn’t told you anything.

He knew that it couldn’t be easy for you, either. Not that he'd been able to see much of you. You’d been allowed to send only a brief message to Victoria to let her know you were okay. Other than that? No outside contact. And since there wasn’t anyone to be spared to look after you, you got shoved alone into one of the medical rooms in the cellar.

When Q went to visit you on that third night, he found you sitting eerily calm on the thinly-sheeted bed there. Eerily, he thought, because your hands were covered in charcoal stains and you didn’t seem to be moving at all.

You looked up as he closed the door behind him, though. He ran a hand self-consciously through his hair. It felt greasy; he was badly in need of a shower. At least you had that luxury available. It would be another sleepless night for Q. No one got to sleep, not at a time like this.

The shadows underneath your eyes told him you hadn’t been sleeping anyway.

“Hey,” you told Q through trembling lips. To his knowledge, you hadn’t cried, not once through this entire ordeal. But he’d known you long enough that he could tell when it was close. He tried to smile reassuringly as he sat down next to you, but in his current state of disrepair and guilt, he couldn’t manage even that.

“Hello,” he replied.

“How are things topside?”

“They’re…coming along.”

Silence fell, and in it Q could hear the mosquito-buzzing of the overhead lights. His exhausted mind buzzed along with it, though at the same time he was hyper-aware of the fact that you were sitting right next to him, and that the last time he’d seen you had been nearly forty-eight hours ago.

“What have you been drawing?” He reached unthinkingly for your sketchpad, but you snatched it away and shoved it behind your back. Q’s eyebrows furrowed. "What’s the matter?”

Your eyes slid away from his and fixed unfocusedly on your bare feet hanging several inches above the tiled floor.

“It’s not pretty.”

“Ah.”

Quiet again. He felt his blood rushing through his veins, carrying half-formed thoughts that didn’t help anything. He should say something. This was his fault. But–

“Alton,” you whispered. “I want to go _home_.”

A rough swallow cleared his throat enough for more words. “I know,” he said, in what he hoped was a soothing tone. “We’ll get to go soon. Mr. Bond is an expert at these sorts of things.”

When you turned back to look at Q, he felt a rush of fear. Your darkened eyes didn’t seem to be looking at him, and your voice cracked at just the wrong place. “I’m _scared_ , Alton.”

Without warning, you pressed yourself against him and began to sob into Q’s shoulder. He didn’t know what to do. You never cried like this. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

But he couldn’t let you go home. He couldn’t let you out. The best he could do was take the short rest period given to him to hug you right back and whisper, “I understand. I know.”


	19. Everything Is Relative

**Rule #19: Remember: Girls are pretty, but yours is the prettiest!**

Two days later, Bond killed the cause of the security breach, and you were released. Not without any sort of ado, of course; MI6 wanted a full debriefing. That wasn't even getting into your not-so-little breakdown, which in M’s opinion warranted a complete psychological exam before he could feel safe in releasing you into the general public. That hadn’t exactly put you in the best state of confidence for your first meeting with head of the entire program.

Q couldn’t help much with that. All he could do was walk you to M’s office door, then give your hand a gentle squeeze as you walked inside. He could feel your pulse pounding as he did so, but he couldn’t even offer you a smile before the door snapped shut and the light above flashed on.

“You’ll be fine,” he muttered to no one. Even Miss Moneypenny was away at the moment. Q was left all alone, with nothing but the painting behind her desk to distract him from his nerves. In a fit of anxiousness, he paced over to the corner water cooler and poured himself a cup. It wasn't tea, but in this case it would have to do.

“Knock knock.”

Q very nearly jumped out of his skin. Given the impossibility of such a situation, though, he only managed to spill water down his front. Of course, there was Bond, sidling into the room, looking bruised but cocky–and, as usual, pleased to be present to see Q embarrass himself.

“007,” Q spluttered as he attempted in vain to dry himself off with nothing but the bottom of his jumper. “What are you doing back already?”

“I caught an early flight back into London,” Bond answered. He placed his hands in his pockets and nodded his head once toward M’s door. “Is [Name] in there? Eve said she wasn’t looking too well earlier.”

The water wasn’t coming out. Q dropped his jumper and gave a shaky nod, his own eyes too jittery to focus for long on any one thing inside the office himself. He swiped an arm across his chin to get the dripping to stop. “M wanted to debrief her. Not that she really knows anything, I don’t think. But for procedure's sake, I suppose.”

Bond seemed to sense Q’s own trepidation, which had only been worsened by all the nights with no sleep. He clapped Q once on the back–with a little too much force, but Q didn’t have it in him to glower this time. “M will treat her fine. He knows she’s not a member, or a threat.”

“I assumed as much,” said Q, as he took off his glasses and rubbed his fists into his eyelids. “It’s just the exhaustion talking. He’ll let her go in a bit and she’ll head home.” A ragged thought drifted through Q’s head: And then, this time, you might even break up with him. Normally he would have voiced such a thought aloud; it helped his snarky demeanor considerably. But this time it was true, and he was surprised by the ache in his chest at the thought.

The man next to him nodded slowly, then leaned one shoulder on the wall. “She’s a pretty woman, your girlfriend.”

The ache grew deeper; Q felt his blood run slightly cold. When he looked up at Bond’s face, he had to work his tongue several times to unstick it enough for speech. Even then, he was quite sure the horror in his voice was plain. “Did you sleep with her?”

Why the thought bothered him so much, Q couldn’t say, except that in this case he couldn’t blame the exhaustion. He’d worried about it before dropping you off, after all. But he knew that Bond had slept with damn near every woman in the office, and that didn’t bother him. It didn’t bother him that Bond and Miss Moneypenny certainly acted as though they slept together all the time, whether or not they actually had. But with you, it was different. And he couldn’t put his finger on why.

The casual smirk Bond threw Q didn’t help matters. “Are you jealous, Q?”

Q broke eye contact and cleared his throat. “No. I–Of course not. I just wondered if that should be mentioned to the psychologist. I wouldn’t want [Name] failing because there were facts deliberately left out of the background details.”

He heard Bond shift away from the wall, then walk over to Miss Moneypenny's desk. Probably to look at the pictures she had set up there. Q didn’t look behind him to see for sure. But maybe Bond wasn’t doing that, as he said, “As I was saying, your girlfriend is pretty. And she made it quite plain she wasn’t going to sleep with me as soon as she set foot inside my flat.”

There was a laugh in Bond’s voice, barely concealed. For once, Q couldn’t even be bothered that Bond was making fun of him. He turned. “Really?”

Bond grinned. “I think she’s a little in love with you.”

A smile flitted across Q’s face, but it couldn’t stay for long. The next moment, he was serious again, and his tired eyes found the light above M’s door. “I hope it stays that way,” he said quietly. Bond nodded.

“For your sake, I hope so, too.”


	20. Sweet Nothings

**Rule #20: Saying something sweet _might_ get you off the hook, but _doing_ something sweet will _always_ get you off the hook.**

Q could hear the television the moment he walked through the front the door that night. It wasn't on loud enough that he could understand what people were saying, or, indeed, if anyone was talking at all, but enough that he could tell that it was on. That meant that you were home, or at least he assumed as much. You’d long since abandoned the habit of leaving things on when you left the flat.

He was not entirely sure if your presence was a _good_ sign. His hand gripped the small bouquet of flowers he’d bought on the way home as he shut the door behind him and hung his jacket on the hook in the entryway.

“[Name],” he called into the oddly still home. “[Name], are you here?”

You didn’t answer. His pulse quickened a bit. More likely than not, you simply weren’t talking to him. He couldn’t blame you. But the silence did not necessarily mean that you had left.

“[Name],” Q said again, trying to keep his voice light. If you were still spooked, he didn’t want to make things worse. As his worry grew, he wandered down the hall, following the sound of the television until he reached the living room. He peeked inside almost reluctantly and felt the tightness in his chest dissipate immediately.

You were there: sitting on the floor, cross-legged, with a bowl of popcorn in your lap. Your eyes looked a little glassy, but otherwise you seemed much healthier than Q had seen you in days. Your hair was up and damp, still dripping slightly onto the collar of the faded t-shirt you wore for pajamas. He practically collapsed against the door frame in relief.

“Eh?” With a handful of popcorn almost to your mouth, you stopped, blinked, and looked in his direction. Oh, sure. _That_ you noticed. Not him shouting frantically for you a few minutes ago. “Alton!”

Q could only stare as you sat up a little straighter and beamed at the sight of him. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting upon coming home, but it certainly wasn’t this enthusiastic greeting. When you’d been let out of M’s office that afternoon, you’d only given Q a tremulous goodbye before sprinting for the exit. Now, everything seemed fine. He gazed steadily at you for a long minute; all you did was gaze back while shoving fistfuls of popcorn into your mouth.

“[Name],” he said hesitantly and very seriously. “Are you all right?”

“I’m great!”

“No, I mean…after all of that.”

You blinked again, then cocked your head and smiled a very rare kind of smile for you–one that told Q that you understood something that he, as of that moment, did not. He walked a little farther into the room before you spoke:

“I’m fine. Look, Alton, I’m really sorry you had to see that–”

“No, _I’m_ sorry you had to go through that.”

An impatient hand waved in the air above your head. “You were just trying to protect me. Mr. Bond, too. I really am sorry for breaking down like that. I just…” You trailed away and allowed your eyes to do so as well. When you looked back at Q a second later, you did so with a shrug. “Went a little stir crazy. You know I don’t like to be alone, and there was nothing to do. I just sat there all day, worrying about you. And I couldn’t contact anyone…”

Silence fell. You chewed on your lip as you glanced about the living room. What were you looking for? A place to hide? Q stood above you with guilt gnawing at his chest. He took a deep breath; apologizing had never been one of his strengths, but he knew he needed to do it now.

“[Name], I am so sorry.”

You lifted your eyebrows, but didn’t comment on the unusual situation. After a moment, you frowned and tugged on one of his pants' legs, as it was the only thing you could reach. “Alton, quit apologizing. You told me things might get like this when you took the MI6 job. I was the one that chose to stay, okay?”

“And are you still going to?”

“Of course I am, Alton.” When Q looked at you questioningly, you grinned. “Come on. How are you supposed to survive without me? You don’t even know how to work an oven properly.”

“Yes, I do!”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile remained. “Just teasing. I love you, Alton. I’m not going to leave just because of that. It wasn’t too bad. Everyone was really nice to me.”

“Even M?”

“Yeah, your boss was totally cool. Although he did tell me not to video call you at work anymore.”

“Probably a good idea.”

This time, the silence was gentler. You smiled soppily up at Q, and he could feel a tiny smile on his own face as well. Then he remembered the flowers.

“Oh!” He practically threw the bouquet at you. “I got you these. To say I’m sorry. I thought you might like them. But maybe you don’t? I couldn’t remember what you said about flowers. You can just toss them out. I mean, if you want to.”

Q could feel his ears turning red. He was _babbling_. How embarrassing. You, however, only smiled again as you took the flowers from him. “Thanks, Alton. But you didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” he insisted. “I…love you, too.”

Blush flared across your cheeks; you looked almost startled. Q couldn’t fathom why, though. Surely he’d said that before? But you didn’t leave him long to ponder. You patted the wood floor beside you and gestured toward the television.

“Take a seat, Alton. Just for a little while. Then you should definitely get some sleep.”

“Probably,” said Q. But he settled down next to you anyway, and let his head fall on your shoulder.


	21. Redacted

**Rule #21: Size does matter–but only to hoes, not to girls that want relationships.**

If Q thought seeing Bond in various locations across London was stressful, it was nothing compared to seeing Bond in his own home. Even then, sitting at the table, Q could not help but feel immensely uncomfortable. Relatively large though the apartment may have been, it still didn’t seem roomy enough to contain Bond, Q, _and_ the latter's excitable girlfriend.

“There you go! Tea is up.” You flashed Bond a smile as you set one mug down in front of him, then Q. Bond smiled back, Q nodded, but you didn’t leave. Instead, you pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and settled in beside them.

“Mr. Bond, I know you’re here for super-secret work purposes and all–”

“Yes,” Q interjected. “He is.”

“–but could I ask you a question really quick?”

“[Name], now is really not the time. Mr. Bond needs to catch a flight to Beijing in the next five hours, and he really cannot afford to waste time with idle chitchat.”

“Oh, give the lady a break, Q.” Bond smirked at the look Q shot him over the top of his glasses. Really, it was bad enough that he had to invite Bond over to do this trade, and now Bond was purposely going to make Q look the bad guy. “I’m sure the professional matters can wait for a few minutes. Unless my ticket is going to blow up if I don’t leave quickly enough?”

Q answered with stony silence that you reacted to not at all. 

Bond’s grin widened as he turned back to you. “Go ahead, [Name].”

For a moment, Q thought you might just do as he had asked and leave. You took a deep breath and closed your eyes. These actions were unfortunately not in preparation for exiting the room. They were instead preparation to ask the following question:

“Mr. Bond, how big is your penis?”

Tea spurted from Q’s lips. Both you and Bond turned to give him quizzical looks as he continued to cough.

“[Name]!” he protested around his coughing fit. “Why would you–You just can’t–Why do you even–” Q could not finish his sentences. 

Your eyebrows lifted; your shoulders shrugged. “What? It’s not like I’m taking out a tape measure and asking him to whip it out on the table.”

The blush flared crimson across Q’s cheeks. Next to him, Bond’s shoulders silently shook, as if he were trying desperately not to laugh openly at Q’s predicament. When Q could not find it in himself to speak, Bond ran a finger around the lip of his mug and asked:

“Why the sudden interest?”

“Well.” You frowned at the table. “Q says everyone wants to sleep with you. I guess I was just curious if that had anything to do with it, because as far as I know, no one has offered to sleep with Q other than me. Maybe it's a size issue?”

Now Bond was definitely suppressing a smile. “How big is Q’s?”

“That’s none of your business!” Q burst out at last. Bond chuckled. You cocked your head to one side and blinked. “Can we _please_ just get back to what we came here to do?”

“ _You_ didn’t come here to do anything. You live here.”

“You know what I mean!” Of course, it was unprofessional to snap, not to mention that Q probably wouldn’t hear the end of this particular embarrassment for a long time to come–from Bond _or_ you. He sighed and tried to contain himself before speaking again. “[Name], _please_ relocate to the living room. This _does_ require the exchange of some confidential information.”

“But I didn’t get my answer.” You stuck your lower lip out, causing Q to glower at you. Sometimes it seemed as if you got some sort of kick out of mortifying him. From the corner of his eye, Q saw Bond wink. That did nothing to comfort him.

“I’m afraid that’s confidential information as well, [Name].” Q turned his head slightly to stare at Bond. What was going on? Was he really trying to salvage the situation? Or was he about to speak some new terror into it?

Your eyes widened. “Really?”

Bond nodded gravely. “I might have to kill you if I told you. M would definitely find out about it, and then where would we be?”

“Dead,” you said breathlessly. “Or arrested.”

“That’s right. Now, why don’t you run along to the living room before Q here’s head explodes?”

“Okay!” You got to your feet, beaming, and headed toward the hallway. “You two have fun!”

Q waited until he heard the television turn on, then heaved a relieved sigh as Bond took a deep swig of tea.

“Thanks,” said Q.

“Don’t mention it.”


	22. Exes and Ohs

**Rule #22: No matter what you say, your ex-girlfriend is a hoe. Don’t bother trying to convince us otherwise. That’s a bad idea.**

“[Name], what _are_ you doing?”

The words came out of Q in a weary sigh. Fifteen minutes ago, he’d asked you take some boxes downstairs. You didn’t want to help with the actual organizing of the closet, which was fine. At the very least, you could help him remove what he was going to get rid of. Unfortunately, you didn’t seem to like that idea much either, if Q finding you sitting on the stairs outside was any indication.

“Alton, did you even look at what you were boxing up?” you asked instead of explaining yourself–or moving out of the way for Q, who was carrying a much larger box. “There’s some really neat stuff in here!”

“Before you even ask if you can keep anything," said Q, "the answer is no. We need to get rid of some things. I don’t want to come home one day and find out an episode of _Hoarders_ being filmed inside my flat.”

You ignored this jab and dug through some more junk. With a roll of his eyes, Q sat his own box on the floor and knelt so that his head was only slightly above yours. A cry of delight slipped through your lips as you pulled free a handsome leather-bound book.

“Oh my gosh, Alton! Look! It’s one of your mum's old scrapbooks!”

“So?” Although Alton may have been sitting next to you, that didn’t mean he didn’t want you to get a move on. Any moment now, one of your neighbors could come by and they wouldn’t be happy to find the way blocked. You didn’t seem to care, seeing as you immediately flipped the book open and began to rifle through the pages.

“You shouldn’t get rid of these unless you’re absolutely certain you don’t want to keep them. Memories are important."

“It’s just some old photos from high school. Why would I care to remember that?”

By then, your attention was entirely swallowed up by the book perched on your lap. “I’ll bet you were in chess club or math club or something, right?”

“Computer club. Now will you please put that away and take it down to the garbage bin like I asked?”

Instead of action, Q got another shriek. After he blinked away the resulting near-blindness, he looked down at the page to see a familiar picture of himself, dressed in an ill-fitting suit, looking extremely uncomfortable next to a young woman dressed in a dark blue dress. You bounced up and down several times before beaming at him.

“You went to your school gala?”

“Did you think you were the only woman to ever ask me out?” Q asked in a half-irritated tone. You did not answer as you drew your hands softly over the photo. He frowned. What was so fantastic about finding a picture of him going to a dance?

“ _She_ asked you?” You gaped down at the picture, then pressed the book quickly into your chest. “That’s so cute!”

“Yes, yes, it’s adorable. [Name], we _are_ in the middle of trying to make more room in the closet.”

To Q’s great relief, you stood up...but you didn’t pick up your discarded box, nor did you make your way downstairs. Instead, you stuck the yearbook underneath your arm and clapped.

“We should call her!”

“What?”

“Yeah, she looks really nice! We should invite her over for tea. Are you still in contact with her?”

Standing himself, Q could only throw you his most confused look. “No, I’m not in contact with Marjorie. We went out on _one_ date. I barely knew her before.”

Now you had your arms wrapped protectively over the book. What did you think you were doing, protecting past Q from future Q? It wasn't as though throwing away the book would make it so he suddenly had never gone to that gala. He reached his hand out to take the book, but you took a step backward.

“So get to know her now!”

“[Name], no.” He flexed his fingers and raised his eyebrows. Slowly, you crept forward. “Look, there’s no reason for me to contact an ex-girlfriend, is there?” As you finally returned the scrapbook to Q, he smiled. “I already have you.”


	23. Brain Freeze

**Rule #23: It’s good to be sensitive, to a point.**

You found Q slumped over at his office table, eyes screwed up, forehead pressed against the table's surface in a desperate but futile attempt to cool his head down. Pieces of his project were littered about his elbows, but he couldn’t bear to look–at them, or at you, even though he knew that you were there.

“Knock, knock,” you said to announce yourself when Q did not acknowledge you.

“Go away,” Q groaned into his arms.

“I brought tea.” A brief, awkward pause followed this declaration. Your footsteps echoed against the tile. “Earl Grey. Your favorite.”

Q’s first inclination, of course, was to tell you to just go away and let him mope in peace. But if you’d gone to all the trouble of making tea, that meant you already knew that he was in dire straits. Best to let you help _now_ , rather than allow you to interrupt every five minutes for the rest of the evening trying to. After allowing himself time to prepare for the coming barrage, he took a deep breath and sat up. You stood only a bit away, arm outstretched to hold out a small teacup and saucer. He took them with a short nod of thanks. As he took a long draught of the beverage, you settled yourself into the seat across from him.

“Hard day?” you asked, grasping your knees. Apparently you already expected to be dismissed. Q hunched his shoulders and set the cup down on the saucer on the table. His eyebrows rose, but he wasn’t in the mood to try beating you off.

“I can’t figure out the schematics of this weapon upgrade,” he said, looking away as though to admit this to you was embarrassing. “It should have been finished three days ago, but I can’t get the damn thing to work. People at work are starting to get agitated.”

When he looked back, you were chewing on your lip. Your fingers contracted slightly, though they remained where you had left them. “You’ll get it, though. Eventually. Won’t you?”

Q rubbed his temples and made to lean his chin on his arms once more. “Probably. But it won’t matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one at work trusts me.” He sighed as you cocked your head to the side.

“Mr. Bond trusts you, doesn’t he? After all, you’re his Quartermaster. Why wouldn’t he transfer to another if he doesn’t like you?”

“It doesn’t work like that. Besides, Mr. Bond isn’t the _only_ person I work with. Every day it’s _‘Who’s the person that connected a rogue agent’s computer to the system and got us hacked? Oh, that’s right. You.’_ I’m the laughingstock of the entire Q Department.”

“But,” you leaned forward, “you knew you’d have to convince them all when you started. You’re young. But that’s why they hired you to begin with. For your innovation.”

“Youth is no guarantee of innovation.” Q picked up one piece of metal, then dropped it back onto the table. “A true innovator would already have this job finished.”

Exhausted by even that little amount of exposure, he allowed his eyes to slide shut. Q couldn’t sleep without completing the assignment, but a nap sounded ever so tempting. Struggle as he might have to maintain consciousness, he could feel himself nodding off.

It must not have been a very long doze. The light in the room hadn’t changed at all when Q awoke with a start to your hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, Alton. Get up.”

“Huh?” The film of sleep would not leave his eyes, no matter how hard he rubbed at them. 

You tugged gently at his upper arm. “Get up. We’re going for a walk.”

Q pried his arm out of your grip as he shook his head and reached for his work once again. “No, [Name]. I can’t. I need to…”

He trailed away, too tired to continue. Noticing your silence, Q turned his attention back to you. You had your arms crossed across your chest.

“I know you don’t think much of my work methods, Alton, but sometimes you need to get away from a problem, so you can come back to it with a clearer head.”

A rejection was on the tip of Q’s tongue when your arms unraveled and you held out your hand. His eyes flicked up to meet yours. Then he almost smiled.

“Okay.”

Without another word, Q stood, adjusted his jacket, and took your hand. You smiled in response, and squeezed his fingers. Just as quietly, you led him to the door.

“Can we pick up supper on the way home?” you asked as you stepped outside. Q took a deep breath of cool night air before answering:

“Sure.”


	24. Bosom Buddies

**Rule #24: If you did something wrong, apologize. Even if you didn’t, apologize anyway.**

As a general rule of thumb, Q did not get out much. He preferred solitude and quiet to the loud, bouncy parties you liked to visit every so often. It came around not infrequently, however, that you would make plans with a shared friend and absolutely insist on Q’s accompanying you. To his surprise, one evening he found the host of the evening wasn’t one of your mutual university friends–rather, it was Bond.

“We’re bosom buddies now,” you had said cheerfully, in response to Q’s questioning of the arrangement.

“You can’t be bosom buddies with a 00 agent, [Name],” he had sighed. “They’re paid to _murder_ people.”

“Well, Mr. Bond and I are, and you are coming to dinner at his home with me this Friday.”

No amount of premeditated snark could get Q through the evening. It could not be more apparent that a good deal of the appeal in any sort of friendship between Bond and you was that of being able to mortify Q at more regular intervals. He was quite relieved when, at last, you got to your feet and smiled at your host.

“Thank you so much for the meal, Mr. Bond,” you said brightly. “You’re an excellent cook.”

Feeling sullen after a long night of talk and no proper internet connection, Q stood as well, though he could not resist a final jab. “I didn’t even know you could cook, Bond.”

At seeing his guests preparing to leave, Bond got up from his place at the table. Q’s last attempt at insult didn’t seem to do anything more than make Bond feel more successful in his plans for the evening, because he grinned in response. “And why would you think I couldn’t cook, Q?”

“The act just doesn’t seem to conform to the usual masculine gender role you appear to typically project.”

Despite Q’s obviously miffed expression while making that statement, Bond only laughed. “You need to get out more,” he said. “Women love a man who can cook.”

Q shot you a very aggrieved look. 

You shrugged. “It’s true. But I _like_ cooking, so don’t worry about it.”

“That wasn’t what I was saying,” Q said, rolling his eyes. Maybe that time you actually understood his intense desire to leave, because you looked back at Bond and announced:

“Thank you for the lovely evening, Mr. Bond, but I should probably take Q home now. It’s past his bedtime.”

“I’d hate for him to be cranky in the morning,” Bond replied. “But what’s the rush? Why don’t the two of you stay for a drink?”

“I don’t drink,” Q said, at the same time that you cried, “I’d love to!”

Bond shook Q’s shoulder as he past; perhaps the gesture was meant to indicate support. But if Bond truly wanted to support Q, he wouldn’t have invited the two of you to stay longer at all. You hurried after Bond into the bar area of the flat. Q remained in the dining room for several minutes after in an attempt to gather enough energy to last the rest of the night.

When he trudged into the dimly lit area, you and Bond were already chatting over cocktails. He slid into the stool next to you, and neither stopped talking. What the conversation was about, Q didn’t really care at all. The only thing he could think about was the set of blueprints he needed to finish reviewing before he could even think about going to bed. You interrupted Q’s mental tirade, however, when you drained your glass with a flourish.

“Wow, that was fantastic! If you hadn’t gone into Intelligence, you would have made an excellent bartender.”

One end of Bond’s lips quirked up. He fingered the thin, curled slice of lemon in his own glass. “I wish I could see her face after hearing you say that.”

“Her? Vesper, you mean? You named the drink after her?”

Bond nodded. “She always thought it left a bad aftertaste.”

“She’s gone now?”

“Yes, several years so.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Q had watched this exchange entirely silently. Then he felt compelled to speak. “I’m surprised, Bond,” he said. “I would never have thought you capable of actually feeling anything toward a woman other than the desire to sleep with her.”

For the first time since his arrival at Bond’s flat, everyone fell entirely silent. Bond’s smile went a little flat, but didn’t disappear. You, on the other hand, looked entirely aghast. It took you nearly an entire minute to find yourself capable of forming a response. Even then, it was only his codename.

“ _Q_!”

“What?” he demanded. “It’s true. That’s all he ever does with people. Unless he’s killing them.”

Face white with shock–or possibly anger–you got off your stool and glared at him. “You know, Q, you help Mr. Bond and all the other agents. You’re just as guilty of murder as he is. I don’t care what kind of business MI6 is running. You should never say something like that to someone who lost a loved one to death.”

“It’s all right, [Name],” Bond said, as Q peered up at you dully through the darkness. “The Vesper business was a messy affair, and before Q’s time with the organization. He probably doesn’t know the details.”

But you didn’t look at Bond. You just kept staring at Q. “Would you want someone to say that to you if _I_ died?”

No one spoke. No one moved. Through the haze of exhaustion and annoyance, Q felt his heart sink to the very bottom of his stomach. He shifted uncomfortably and looked distinctly away from both you and Bond before he spoke.

“No,” he answered. “I’m sorry, Bond.”

“Quite all right, Q. No harm done.”

You were less easy to mollify. A moment later, your hand wrapped around Q’s arm and gently but definitely pulled him up from his seat. “Thanks again, Mr. Bond.” Your voice sounded flat and almost raspy. “We really should be going this time.”

Bond only nodded as he moved the empty glasses to a more secure place on the counter. “I’ll show you out.”


	25. Family Feud

**Rule #25: You did something bad. She seems cool with it. She’s not.**

No matter how Q looked at the expansive easel before him, no meaning was forthcoming. Around him milled dozens of patrons, finely dressed men and women that wouldn’t look out of place at the kind of parties Bond had a habit of crashing. Their quiet voices rumbled through the background like a brook, but no helpful clue rose above the mutter.

“Hm…”

“Still nothing?”

Q shook his head as he turned his attention back to you. You wore a wry smile on your face, but he could tell you were more amused by his inability to glean meaning from the painting than offended that he couldn’t figure out your work. He smiled and took a sip of his drink.

“You must be some sort of artistic genius, [Name].”

You laughed at that and spun happily around before calming down enough to respond. “Hardly. It’s something I threw together while I was stuck in the basement at MI6.”

He lifted his eyebrows and glanced again at the black-and-white smears. “Well, you do seem to have a knack for traditional media. Have you considered doing this instead of graphic design?”

“I’m not that good. I couldn’t make a living off of this sort of thing.”

“[Name], your painting is being featured at a high class art show.”

“Only because the man running it happened to see this when he was commissioning me.”

His mouth opened to retort, but the words never came. At the exact same moment, a familiar voice called across the hall:

“ _There_ she is!”

Your good mood dissipated almost immediately; your face drained of all color as you turned toward the source of the voice. Headed toward you both was a small cluster of people: three adults, and two young children. Upon recognizing them, you quickly turned back to Q.

“Alton, did you tell my family about this art show?” you hissed as they neared. 

Q knew he had very little time to explain himself. “I didn’t _mean_ to. They called the other day and–”

“And you just _told_ them my art was getting shown here?”

“Did you not want your family to know? I thought you’d be proud.”

“ _Proud_?” you began, but by then your family had reached you. You straightened and put on a bright smile as the youngest boy ran up to you.

“Hey, guys!” you said. “What are you all doing here?”

Your father grinned and slapped Q once on the back before he answered. Q almost lost the thread of conversation in trying to right himself after the blow.

“We couldn’t miss out on our baby girl’s big debut! I couldn’t believe it when Alton here told us. Lucky he did, too, or we would have missed out entirely.”

“I’m sure you meant to tell us eventually, didn’t you, dear?” your mother asked. You nodded with what looked to Q like a pained expression, then turned your attention to the eleven-year-old boy at your elbow.

“Hey, Jack! How’s life treating you? You still enjoying art class?”

Jack scuffed his shoe against the gleaming floor and didn’t answer. To fill the silence, his twin sister piped up:

“Mommy took Jack’s art set away. He’s supposed to play baseball now.”

“Oh.” Your mother forced a smile at your expression before you went back to looking at the top of Jack’s head. “Are you enjoying baseball, then?”

“I–”

“Could we _please_ get a move on and see your things, [Name]?” the other woman interrupted. Tall, dark haired, and dressed in a sharp business suit, Q knew that was your oldest sister Susan even without having seen her more than twice before. Her eyes remained glued to the Blackberry in her hand as she spoke. “I have a big case coming up and I really don’t have the time to dawdle at art exhibits.”

Your smile turned most definitely strained, but remained nonetheless. “Of course, Susan. I know how busy you are. Come on, guys. I’ll show you around.”

“Finally,” said Susan. Your parents exchanged wary looks.

“Where are your things, sweetheart?” asked your mother. “Do you have a lot?”

“No, just the one. But you don’t want to see that. I’ll take you to the good stuff and then you all can get on your way.”

Without waiting for anyone to protest–and no one did–you brushed past Q with Jack still clutching firmly at your hand. Q fell in step behind you quickly, the better to get ahead of the rest of the group.

“[Name],” he whispered into your neck as discreetly as he could. “I’m sorry. I thought they were already coming.”

“It’s fine, Alton,” you said as you turned to beam at him. “Just fine.”


	26. From Venus or Mars

**Rule #26: We are self-conscious by nature; we can’t help it. Let it be.**

“Well, that went better than I thought it would,” you announced, as at last you and Q exited the building. Outside the lights of London already filled the air with an ethereal glow. A cab puttered at the curb, and you smiled as Q paused for a moment at the top of the steps. He blinked several times to make sure that he was seeing your expression correctly.

“You aren’t mad? That I told your parents about the gallery?”

“Eh?” You cocked your head to one side. “No. I mean, I _was_ , but things went well after all. They even seemed to like the painting.”

Q caught a flash of a second pleased-but-embarrassed smile before you walked down to the cab. After waiting for you to crawl inside, he followed. It took only a moment to give the driver directions to the flat. Then Q turned back to you.

“Did you think they wouldn’t?”

“Well, you _know_. They’ve never been excited about me going into art. I didn’t want another lecture about not doing something with my life when I told them my painting was getting featured.”

“I noticed they took away Jack’s art set.”

“Oh!” You sat up a little straighter, or at least as straight as your formal dress would allow you. Q himself felt quite stiff in his own tuxedo by that time in the evening. He didn't envy Bond having to wear such a getup regularly one bit. “No, it’s not like that! They always encouraged me to draw and stuff. It’s just that it’s not proper for a _career_. You’ve seen Susan. Eliza and Robert are like that, too. They got to all the professional jobs before I did. I became an artist so I wouldn’t have to compete! My parents are probably just trying to get Jack on the right track.”

With a little sigh, Q settled back onto his seat. His eyes drifted shut. All of your siblings definitely were cutthroat professionals. You looked especially odd in their company, a ball of cheer that wore clothes several sizes too big instead of tailored suits. Still, you suffered through all the family reunions, all the birthday parties held for nieces and nephews, and all you got in return was a brief visit to see a painting.

“They said such nice things," you said wistfully. 

A single eyelid popped open. With the constantly shifting lighting in the vehicle, Q could hardly make you out. He could, however, tell that you were staring out the window.

“They should have. It’s fantastic work.”

“Oh,! It’s nothing that great.”

“[Name],” said Q very seriously. “It is. I _liked_ it. You did a wonderful job. You’re a wonderful artist.”

Blush flooded your cheeks. You could hardly meet his eyes. “I’m not! I have so much to learn and—and—and…I hardly deserved to be there.”

For a moment, Q let the silence in the cab grow. Outside, horns honked and music blared and people laughed. Then he took your hand gently in his.

“[Name], you _are_ good. You chose to be artist, so you should have a little confidence in your work. After tonight, I’d say you earned it.”

You frowned up at him, and Q thought that he must have said the wrong thing. He winced. Three screw-ups in such close proximity? He doubted he would avoid some sort of talking to. But the next second, he felt your hand wrap around his own. You scooted closer and smiled.

“You’re right. Thanks, Alton."


	27. A Rare Treat

**Rule #27: We don’t shave our legs every day so just get over it.**

Dinner that night was a quiet affair. Plastic forks scraped against Styrofoam takeout boxes from the Thai restaurant down the street; feet shuffled against the carpet under the table; only yawns punctuated the silence.

It had been like that ever since the art show. For a few days, Q fretted over the possibility that you were upset with him—over the evening with Bond or your family, he didn’t know. But as the nights you practically ignored him passed, his worry started to fade into annoyance. Not even snapping at you over getting takeout when he’d already bought food for the week had got much of a reaction.

“Are you going to give me the cold shoulder for the rest of our lives?” he asked testily. 

A long moment passed where you stared blearily down at your food, as though surprised to find yourself eating. Then you looked up at Q with your brow furrowed. “Huh?”

Q wasn’t interested in playing games. He set his own silverware down and folded his arms across his chest. “You haven’t even tried having sex with me in a _week_.”

It looked for a minute as though you were going to ask him who he was, or what he meant by sex. In that space of time, Q noticed the dark circles under your eyes. Before he could ask why you had decided to take up impersonating a raccoon, though, you spoke up with a question of your own:

“Alton, what the hell is going on?”

“I—” Q was, in fact, used to seeing you look confused. Whenever he went off about anything regarding his computers, you immediately checked out and had to have the details repeated several times if wanted he wanted anything to stick. However, he’d never seen you so bewildered regarding a simple conversation. “What do _you_ mean?”

“You’re so grouchy,” you answered, sticking your fork straight up into what was left of your meal.

“ _Me_? _You’re_ the one that’s been up at all hours, muttering to yourself and only bothering to speak to me when you want me to go out to get food. I already apologized about inviting your family to the art gallery. What more do you want me to do?”

Your eyes focused on Q’s more sharply than they had all evening. “Nothing!”

“Then why—”

“Alton, I’ve been a little busy,” you said; the peevish note had left your voice. “I got, like, ten commissions from people that saw my painting, and I’ve only got a month to finish them all. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to have sex with—” The end of your sentence was choked away in a splutter. You practically sprang out of your chair as the realization dawned upon you. Q could feel his heart dropping. “Wait. Oh my god. Are you asking me to have sex with you?”

“What? No! I don’t—”

“You can’t just spring that on me, Alton!” you said as you half-tripped in the direction of the bathroom. “I haven’t even shaved my legs!”

“I’m not interested in—You don’t shave your legs every morning?”

“No,” you said and stopped at the door. “Why would I? You’re the only one that sees them regularly, and you don’t appreciate them.”

“I—I appreciate your legs,” Q protested. “Just not when they’re around my hips.”

Your sudden return to cheer deflated like a punctured balloon. “Does that mean no sex?”

“Yes,” said Q, but the obvious disappointment on your face had him reconsidering. At last, he slumped backward in his chair, defeated. “Fine,” he groaned. “If it will get you talking to me again.”

But he did not hear movement—no feet leaving the room, no excited squealing. Q risked looking back up. You were standing where he had left you, smiling. “You know,” you said when you caught his eye, “I’m really tired. How about we just watch a movie instead? We can complain about the plot holes together.”

Q sat up. “Deal.”


	28. Not Quite Jumping the Shark

**Rule #28: Shave your face. No matter how cool you think your goatee or beard or mustache looks, we probably hate it. We like you clean shaven.**

In the days that followed, Q barely saw you. A sudden emergency at MI6 had him working hours late into the night, and though you often weren’t asleep when he tripped home in the evenings, you were difficult to spot through your own whirlwind of pencils and paper and ink.

Q was too tired to bother interrupting you. He hated being pestered when he was busy himself, so he didn’t want to do that to you. Fortunately, the distance allowed him to finish all of the projects he brought home. Unfortunately, it also resulted in many dinners consisting only of toast that he had to eat alone.

What you were doing for meals, he didn’t know, and he didn’t have any time to ask. He climbed into bed long before you did and left in the morning before you alarm went off. It wasn’t much in his nature to worry, but even if he wanted to, there just weren’t enough hours in the day. Get up, shower, go to work, work frantically until eleven, go home, eat, collapse into bed, repeat.

But when things began winding down for him, Q couldn’t say the same thing for you. He stumbled in one night at twelve-thirty, finally done, starving, and ready for bed, only to find all the lights in the flat off. Stranger still, music was playing from the living room.

With a frown, he followed the noise until he spotted the source: your laptop, sitting on the coffee table with the screen showing one of your endless iTunes playlists. You, meanwhile, were out cold, with your face stuck to the table and the point of a pen still pressed against a sheet of paper. Hopefully you didn’t plan to use that sheet, since a rather large blot of ink had formed on it. He also hoped that you planned to clean up after yourself when you were finished. Given the situation, Q tried his best not to wince when he saw the cup of water you had placed directly on the surface of the coffee table with no coaster.

Judging by the fact that there weren’t any lamps on, you’d likely passed out before sunset. Q hesitated in the doorway. If he left you there, you’d probably wake up with a crick in your neck or worse. Besides that, when was the last time you had eaten? He couldn’t remember food being missing when he ate himself.

“[Name],” he said, as he placed a hand on your shoulder. You snorted, but did not wake up. The next time, he shook harder. “[Name].”

“Huh?” You awoke with a snort; when you lifted your head, the piece of paper remained stuck to your cheek. “Where am I?”

“You’re at the flat,” Q answered with a sigh. He wanted to go to bed, but he supposed he really did owe you some looking after. At the sound of his voice, you stiffened and then your head whirled around. Upon seeing his face, however, you didn’t look calmer. In fact, your eyes widened and you actually leaned away from him.

“Who are you?” you asked, your voice raspy with fatigue. 

“Q,” he said, then rolled his eyes and, feeling somewhat foolish, corrected himself: “Alton. It’s Alton.”

With a look on your face that Q could only describe as “loopy,” you lifted a limp arm and rubbed the back of your hand against his cheek. He held himself very still, working to keep himself from glowering at you as you did so. “Alton doesn’t have a beard.”

At last, he shoved your arm away; you allowed it to fall to your side, though you continued gazing up at him through your baggy eyes. “It’s been busy at work. I haven’t had the time to shave.”

“That’s…real?”

“Yes, it’s real,” Q said irritably. He had forgotten how drugged you could sound when exhausted. “What else would it be?”

You didn’t answer. For some time, you just blinked up at Q, as though unsure of whether or not he was actually there, or, perhaps, he still lived at the flat at all. Instead of asking any of those questions, though, you suddenly got to your feet, grabbed his shoulders, and pulled him in for a kiss.

“What was that for?” Q asked dazedly, once you’d broken away. You settled back onto the floor with your hand to your chest.

“That is really hot,” you answered, and then made a high pitched whining sound. Before he could ask what that was about, you explained yourself: “And I’m too tired to jump your bones.”

Q had absolutely no idea how to respond to that. He simply watched as you laid your head back down onto your arms and blinked tiredly at the wall. After a few minutes of that, he shifted awkwardly and took a step back toward the door.

“Do you—do you want dinner?” he asked. 

You nodded. “Just a sandwich, please.”

“I’m on it.”


	29. Knight in Shining Armor

**Rule #29: Show off a little. We think it’s cute.**

“Oh no.”

When Q first heard that note of horror in your voice, he ignored it. He was busy, trying to finish a list of parts he would need to customize something for Bond’s next mission. Whatever your problem was, you could handle it. No need for him to get involved.

“Oh no. _Please_ no!”

He narrowed his eyes in an attempt to better ignore you. His project needed to be finished within the week, and some of the parts would be difficult to obtain. The sooner Q submitted the list, the better.

“No, no, no!”

Your third set of interjections was accompanied by the unmistakable sound of you attempting to pummel your laptop into submission. Without even thinking, Q got to his feet and practically threw himself into the living room to snatch your computer up.

“What are you _doing_?” he demanded, wide-eyed. You remained sitting cross-legged on the floor, your arms outstretched for the offending object. Despite the obvious tears glistening in your eyes, however, Q had no intention of returning your laptop to you.

“Give it back!” you said, as you gestured toward yourself.

“Not if you’re just going to hit it,” he snapped, and then sat down next to you so that he could look at the screen. “What in the world is so wrong that you’d resort to violence?”

“It crashed! It crashed, and now every time I click on something, a thing pops up and says that everything is infected. I was almost done with a project. Now it’s gone forever!”

Q tapped at a few of the icons on your desktop (which was a photograph of you and he together). Sure enough, each time, a window popped up demanding a credit card number in exchange for cleansing. He sighed wearily before looking up at you.

“You haven’t given them your number have you?”

“N-No,” you stammered around a throat full of tears. “Should I?”

“No. It’s a computer virus.”

The effect Q’s words had on you was instantaneous: all the color drained for your face. He had no time to react before you snatched your laptop back and began desperately pounding on the keys. “No! I have to turn that in tomorrow!”

“[Name], stop!” Q said sharply. You froze. With a sigh, he got to his feet, took the laptop back, and sat down once more. “I can fix this.”

“You _can_?”

"Must you sound so disbelieving?" Q rolled his eyes, and began the process. “Of course. It’s _simple_.”

It would have been simpler if Q had actually focused. Instead, he kept looking sideways at you. Your mouth remained open the entire time as you watched him go through the process of debugging your computer. Seeing you so impressed was a little gratifying, enough that he might have taken the "long" way of fixing things just to really prove his point. Only ten minutes later, he handed it back to you with a smile.

“There you go. All taken care of.”

You took the laptop from him, but quickly sat it back down to free yourself to kiss him on the cheek. “You’re so smart, Alton. What would I do without you?”


	30. Lazy Sundays

**Rule #30: You are our boyfriend, our man, our protector. Whether you know it or not, you are. Act like it.**

When things came down to the wire, Q found himself pacing about more often than not. He had more of the house to wander through while you were off visiting your older brother, too. More house—hopefully—meant more ideas. That code _needed_ cracked, and he was almost there. Perhaps if he just—

_BANG!_

With a start, Q turned quickly around to see two children tumble into his flat, screaming with delight. His eyes widened behind his glasses. Children? In his home? When he was in the middle of something? A flare of panic surged into his chest, and did not go away even when he noticed you steering the small boys through the entrance hall. You spotted him shortly thereafter, shooting Q a sheepish smile that he did not believe made up for the ordeal about to ensue.

“Tommy! Danny!” You ripped your eyes off Q’s face. “Quit shouting, please! Calm down.” All the while, the wispy-haired girl in your arms stared at Q with one fist stuck in her mouth. Her brothers brought their voices down two octaves; apparently deciding that was good enough for the time being, you heaved a sigh, shifted the two-year-old into a better position, and returned your attention back to Q.

He didn’t have to speak. Q knew quite well that his expression would be enough to express his displeasure. Sure enough, you frowned before explaining:

“Ronnie and Monica don’t get out much with three kids.” Again, he didn’t have to roll his eyes. He did—but he didn’t _have_ to. It was not as though Ronald ever did anything for _you_ , but ask you to babysit, and you’d drop anything to do it. As if reading Q’s mind, your frown deepened before you added defensively, “And it’s not like we had plans.”

The code flashed into the forefront of Q’s mind. If he fought with you in front of your nephews, it would be sure to get back to Ronald, who would have something smug to say the next time Q met him. Still, he couldn’t resist retorting, “ _You_ don’t have plans.”

Your mouth only had time to half-open with a reply before Danny and Tommy finally realized that Q was standing there by the entrance to the kitchen.

“Uncle Alton!” Danny, the youngest, roared, rushing forward to wrap his tiny arms around one of Q’s legs.

Q closed his eyes as though in pain in an attempt to resist kicking the child off. “I am _not_ your uncle.”

“But you live with Aunt [Name].”

“Dad says Aunt [Name] is living in sin.” Q threw his gaze over to Tommy just in time to see the boy’s smirk. And Ronald wondered _why_ Q never wanted to talk to him. Scowling, he jostled his legs, to no avail. Danny remained firmly glued there, which did nothing to improve Q's mood.

“Yes, well, you’d know all about that, would—”

“Hey!” you interrupted very loudly. “Who wants to help me make ice cream sundaes?”

“Me!” Tommy and Danny shrieked together. Even Tiffany voiced appreciation of that idea. Avoiding Q’s eyes, you herded everyone into the kitchen. The flat became no less loud, but at least there was no longer a four-year-old attached to his leg. Q threw one annoyed look in the direction of the doorway, then meandered back into his office.

It was difficult to work through all the noise, especially since his office did not have a door. After twenty minutes, Q was seriously considering going to the office just for some peace and quiet. Yes, [Name], give them sugar! That will help immensely, thank you. Just as he prepared to snap his laptop shut, however, he heard you screaming in the kitchen:

“No! Guys—no! Stop! Ah!”

Several loud crashes followed that cry, which you responded to by squealing again. Without even pausing to think what could have caused that commotion—had they got ahold of the pots again?—Q got to his feet and rushed into the kitchen.

“[Name], are you all—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. Everything was a mess. Whipped cream dripped down cabinets and the refrigerator; almond slices littered the floor; strawberries were stuck in Tiffany’s hair—and you stood in the midst of it all, covered from head to toe in chocolate syrup, looking horrified. Q’s brain ground to a halt. How? Why? But—

“Get him!” the children screamed.

A second later, and Q was covered in chocolate sauce, too.


	31. Big Talk

**Rule #31: You are cute in raglan-sleeved t-shirts.**

“I cannot _believe_ that Ronald _congratulated_ them on making that mess,” Q said irritably later that evening. “And he just left _us_ here to clean everything up!”

From your perch on one of the washing machines that Q wasn’t using, you shrugged. He sighed and pressed the start button before crossly turning back toward you.

“Really? That doesn’t bother you at all?” 

You shook your head and offered Q another shrug. After a long moment of silence, your shoulders fell as you admitted, “He should have stayed to help. But it’s not their fault. They’re just kids, Alton.”

Q snorted. “Kids that need some serious discipline. If we ever have children, they certainly won’t be flinging sundae ingredients all over the walls, I can tell you that much.”

He expected you to laugh–not that he really thought anything was much of a laughing matter at that moment. It would take week to find all those almond slivers; he wouldn’t be able to look at the kitchen without shuddering for the rest of the _month_. Still, it was unlike you not to make some sort of jab about his need for everything to be clean. When Q realized this, he frowned until you met his eyes.

“You want children?” you asked.

“Why? Don’t you?”

You looked away from him slowly, then bunched your shoulders together. “I don’t know. I have such a big family. I’m not really…ready to make ours bigger.” Q’s frown deepened; he had not expected such a serious turn of conversation. When you looked up at him again, however, you beamed. “But we’re still really young, right? It’s not something we have to worry about for a while.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s a conversation for a later day.” He ran his fingers down the machine door. “Although it _is_ something to discuss while I wait for our things to get clean.”

That time, you did laugh, though Q still wasn’t trying to be funny. You hopped off the machine, walked over to him, and grabbed his wrist. “Or we could go back upstairs so you can change.”

“Huh? Oh.” He looked down to see the shirt Ronald had lent him and scowled. “He didn’t have to lend me a shirt ‘to clean up in.’ I can afford my own clothing.”

“Yeah, it’s not really your style. He just did it to be a dick,” you agreed.

“I assumed as much,” Q said dryly. He had half a mind to just tear the stupid baseball shirt right off, but then you might have jumped on him in the laundry room and what if someone walked in? “You’re right,” he said at last. “Let’s go upstairs. I’ll come back down right after I’ve finished changing so no one can steal our things.”

“Good plan. And I’ll start dinner.”

“You won’t throw the ingredients everywhere, I presume?” Q asked as he followed you out of the room. 

You laughed again. “No. I’d hate for you to have to wear that shirt any more. You look so _weird_.”

"Yes. I rather thought so, too. "


	32. Not So Out of Character

****

**Rule #32: We love it when you hug us from behind and whisper in our ear.**

If there was one remaining benefit to Q’s staying at his job, it was that he was frequently allowed to do it from home–even, on occasion, ordered to do so. The firewall he’d set up upon moving into his flat rivaled even MI6’s, or _would_ until he got around to updating theirs. He could be trusted to get things done without detection.

One morning, with his trusty cup of tea steaming on his bedside table, Q turned on his laptop and started his most recent assignment: cracking into India’s missile defense system. Perhaps not as flashy a job as any of Bond’s, but perhaps a _smidge_ more important.

Simple, though, Q thought. Almost too simple, really. His fingers clacked swiftly across the keys, entering ones and zeros and program indicators. He hardly broke a sweat, until something began to blare from the living room with voices so loud that he could barely understand them.

A long breath issued from between Q’s teeth; he closed his eyes. _‘Ignore her,’_ he told himself. _‘Just ignore her.’_

But there was a reason that he more often went to work rather than do his job at home, namely: you. Used to having the flat to yourself for even days at time, you hardly gave any consideration to what others might consider a working environment. No, you just played whatever music it was that you wanted as loudly as you wanted and sang along at the top of your lungs, even dancing through rooms while you thought over what to draw next. Unfortunately, Q was in the middle of something important and couldn’t exactly stop just to ask you to.

“Will you turn that down?” Q bellowed, and then took several gulps of his tea. Yelling, on top of early morning aggravation, did nothing for his throat. Unfortunately, by then your music was so loud (or you were so involved in your own thought process) that you couldn't hear him.

His eyes screwed up as he focused on the screen. The hacking wasn’t exactly a rush job, more just a test run, in case Bond needed the system down when he visited India next month. But that didn’t mean that M wasn’t watching, or any other member of the Q Department eager to take Q down a few pegs. He rattled off a few more lines of code.

“When it crumbles, we will stand taaaaalll!” Q winced, his fingers freezing as your singing voice rose over the rest of the tumult. “Face it all together, at skyfall!”

As he stared grumpily at the wall in front of him, Q let out a grumbling sigh. If he could not concentrate on his work while you were making noise, then there was no use pursuing his work, now was there? His fist remained clenched around the handle of his teacup as he got off the bed and wandered down the hallway toward the living room.

“You can have my number!” you continued to sing with your back toward the doorway. Your shoulders rocked back and forth in time to the music. “You can take my name! But you’ll never have my–”

“[Name],” Q whispered just as he wrapped his arms around you. 

You broke off into a shriek. “Jesus, Alton!” you said, wide eyed, once he released you and you spotted him. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“Yes, well. It was the only way to get your attention.” 

You blinked and lifted one hand to scratch the side of your nose. It left a streak of charcoal on your skin. “You needed me?”

“To turn the music down,” he said, and heaved another great sigh. “I’m busy and it’s hard to concentrate.”

Your face twisted with confusion. “Why didn’t you just call?”

“I did.”

“Oh.” Looking somewhat abashed, you clicked several times and the music fell to barely audible. “Sorry.”

“That’s quite all right,” he said primly, then headed back toward the door.

“Let me know,” you said, “if you need me to do anything else. Just–don’t do _that_ again.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” Thankfully, you could not see his eyes roll, and the motion was well deserved. Before Q had finished his business, he’d had to ask you to turn your music down again in the same manner three more times.


	33. Grounds for Removal

****

**Rule #33: "Fine" is NEVER an appropriate response when we ask you how we look.**

If there was one thing Q hated (and there were many more than one), it was a dressing room. If there was one thing he hated more (and there were many more than one), it was having to wait outside a dressing room while you tried on clothes. After having already been there on the uncomfortable seat for twenty minutes, he was starting to sweat–and his company wasn’t helping matters.

“She spends three days in the basement and twenty minutes with M and suddenly she’s a full-fledged agent,” he grumbled into the palm supporting his cheek. Q was perfectly aware that Bond could hear him, and thus entirely meant him to. He did not look up, even when he heard the man settle down on the bench next to him.

“Quit worrying,” he said as he patted Q’s shoulder. “It’s nothing dangerous.”

“Then why are _you_ going?”

Q still didn’t quite understand why, but he didn’t like you spending time alone with Bond. Maybe it was just that sleeping with Bond seemed to get women killed and you were awfully found of sleeping with people. That line of reasoning did not seem quite right either, though. He just couldn't get it out of his mind: there was that time you asked Bond about his size to consider, _and_ that disaster of dinner party, _and_ the fact that 00 agents didn’t just get sent off on easy assignments. If anything, the circumstances made Q even _more_ agitated than he normally would have been while he was out shopping with you.

“Did M really not give you any of this information when he asked if I could borrow your girlfriend?” Bond asked casually. 

At last, Q looked over at Bond; his scowl was met with a smirk. Behind the door where you were trying on dresses came no sound at all. Q hoped you weren’t listening in. You didn’t seem to like it when he mouthed off to anyone he worked with. Upon seeing Q’s face, however, Bond’s smile only widened.

“Lighten up, Q. All she’s doing is accompanying me to a party.”

“Eve busy, is she?”

“As a matter of fact, she is. Besides,” Bond rubbed at a spot on his chest, “I don’t feel exactly comfortable taking her out in the field with me. At least _[Name]_ isn’t going to send me plunging hundreds of feet off a moving train and into a river.”

“No,” Q said faintly. “No, I suppose she won’t be doing that.”

But he still didn’t see why you had to go at all. You weren’t an agent; you didn’t have proper training. Of course, no one at MI6 really bothered asking _him_ if your going along was all right. No, M just asked if you'd be interested in taking on some work, and then, when Q had offered a hesitant “possibly,” announced he had already called and got your approval. Really, you were a grown adult and could make your own decisions, but in this case, you couldn’t have made a worse one. Q had _nothing_ to do with this particular assignment. What if something _happened_ to you?

“You aren’t planning to call every five minutes like a mother hen, are you?” Q could tell by the way Bond shook his ankle after crossing one leg over his knee that he was getting tired of waiting, too. "Because that might arouse some suspicion. She won’t be in any danger. All I have to do is talk to the woman, get a piece of information out of her. All [Name] needs to do is be herself. No one is going to end up dead.”

And Mathis and Agent Fields were off enjoying retirement together, were they? If Q had heard the story of the Quantum Mission at all correctly, _that_ party had not been considered dangerous either. And at least Fields was an agent, even if only at a desk! You had no training at all. But he remembered what had happened the _last_ time he mentioned Bond’s death count with you around and swallowed his retort. Before he could think of another, the door to your room at last swung open.

Out you stepped, hair not as done up as it would be on that night, and with as little makeup as you had put on that morning. Still, the dress was certainly something, and you swept your hands nervously down its skirt as you approached the two men. Though you passed a mirror, you didn’t look into it. Next to Q, Bond straightened.

“Do I–” You closed your eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again. “Do I look all right?”

You were, Q noticed, looking straight at him, not Bond. Unfortunately, he hadn’t the faintest idea. The dress looked like any other number of ones he might have seen on you that day or in your closet at home. Besides that, he was in no mood to be charitable that afternoon. “Fine,” he answered shortly.

At that, you colored and glanced in the mirror nearest to where you were standing. Your fingers swiped through your hair as you made to stare at your toes. Bond stood.

“You look lovely, [Name].”

Still blushing, you looked up. “R-really?”

He nodded. “You’ll be the belle of the ball.”

“Oh, shut up,” Q said as he, too, got to his feet. Your lips trembled around your smile. In retrospect, he probably should have said something nicer, but he was still too upset about you agreeing to this fiasco to begin with. The party wasn’t for another week, and he knew it was going to be an uncomfortable week at that. Still, he didn’t want Bond getting one over him, so he stopped before he left the room. “You–You do look nice in that. Is that the dress you want?”

Although you remained red, you smiled again, and nodded. “Yes!”

“Then go get out of it so we can buy it and go home.”

You tottered off to do as he said without a spot of protest. A moment later, and Q heard the distinct sounds of stifled laughter. He looked at Bond with yet another grimace.

“And what is it _now_?” he demanded irritably.

“It’s just,” Bond stopped to force his smile away, “you’re _really_ bad at this.”

Q allowed only a moment of silence to follow that proclamation. “ _You_ buy the dress,” he said, and left without another word.


	34. Celebrity Crush

****

**Rule #34: Most of the time, when we fantasize, it’s about you. Don’t obsess over that.**

It would be several years before Q could be quite certain as to how he managed to stay up long enough that night to see you home. It seemed to him that he had made his preparations for bed sometime around seven, but there he was at one o’ clock, still in the living room. His eyes peered glassily from between the gaps in his blanket cocoon; the television’s blue light flicked numbingly across his face even as he wondered what on earth he was doing. He must have drunk his last cup of Earl Grey at a bad time.

He was tired enough that he didn’t notice the front door had clicked open and shut until he heard someone in the bathroom. When some plastic battle hit the floor, Q jolted to his feet, heart hammering as his tired brain momentarily confused the noise for someone breaking and entering. When he got up to investigate, however, it was only to find you half-naked there instead.

“Oh,” you said when you caught his reflection in the mirror. After another quick wipe at the mascara stuck to your lashes, you turned toward him. “What are you still doing up?”

Q shrugged and adjusted the blanket around his bare shoulders. Your tone of voice indicated that you had not forgotten his spat with Bond at the shop a week ago. Even _he_ could admit that he could have acted an iota more reasonable, but it was the principle of the matter. You shouldn’t have been leaping into MI6 matters so easily, and so he had not apologized. Maybe sensing that he had no plans to do so in those early morning hours either, you returned to washing off your makeup.

He stood there, watching, until the silence bothered him enough to speak. “Have a nice time?”

“Mm.” The sound was innocent enough, but Q did not altogether trust you. After all, what with your current fight with him and Bond’s general womanizing, the iron was hot to strike. Before Q could realize what a dumb move it was, he opened his mouth and blurted:

“Did you and Mr. Bond–”

“No, Alton!” The stupidity of the question dawned on him only as you whirled fiercely away from the mirror. “For the last damn time, I am _not_ interested in your coworker! I guess it hasn’t entered your supposedly genius mind even after four years, but I’m in love with _you_. Or at least I am when you aren’t acting like a jealous bitch.”

The time that it took Q to splutter in response to that bombshell could have filled several decades. “Jealous?” he repeated at last. Your only response was to place your hands on your hips. “You are completely missing the point, [Name].”

“Really? You _didn’t_ stay up this late just to make sure I came home and didn’t run away to cheat on you with Eve’s boyfriend?”

“Miss Moneypenny and Mr. Bond are not–That’s not the point!” Q waved away the distraction and took a deep breath before he looked at you again. “I just wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

It appeared to be your turn to not believe him. Your eyes flicked once up and down his body. “Well, I’m home safe.”

You meant that to be the end of things, Q knew. Probably he should have left it there, but he decided to take another brave stab at conversation. As you washed your face with your dress pooled around your ankles, he leaned against the door frame and asked:

“Did Mr. Bond complete his mission?”

“Yes,,” you answered waspishly. “And I got to meet Benedict Cumberbatch, and if you ask me, you should be more worried about me ditching you for _him_ than Mr. Bond.”

Q’s mouth fell open. “He smokes!” he protested.

“And you’re prone to jealousy! Everyone has faults, Alton.”

Your last outburst rang against the walls of the cramped room until you sighed. Looking almost tearful, you spun back toward Q once again. Your eyes met, but when you spoke, it was not to offer an apology of your own. “Just go to bed. I want a shower and to be alone.”

He nodded and did as suggested without speaking. Even warm at last in bed, however, Q did not fall asleep. His itchy eyes stared at the blurry shape of the chair in the corner while he listened to the water in the shower hiss into the bottom of the tub. Only when he finally felt you climb into bed next to him did he allow himself to drift off.


	35. Damned If You Don't

****

**Rule #35: We expect you to call us. If you don’t, you go down.**

Even though Q had only viewed them a little over a year ago, the training videos he’d had to endure during orientation for his job with MI6 had mostly faded from his mind. The useful tidbits, such as how to evacuate the building in case a madman hacked the computer system and blew everything up he remembered. The less useful information–like how to stay calm in a crisis–he did not.

You being missing was not exactly a crisis, but it _was_ enough to tangle his stomach into knots. He expected you to be there when he got off the plane with Bond. He did not _want_ you to be, but he expected it. And when he got out of his debriefing with M, he expected to find you sitting with Eve again, ready to ignore his complaints and get him home. You thwarted each of these expectations.

As if things weren’t already terrible, Q had to catch a ride home with Bond. Bond! The one who started this entire mess with his constant insistence on flirting with you and pointing out that Q didn’t know how relationships worked! Of course, Q _could_ have taken the tube, but it was freezing and he was panicked. In the two weeks since he’d left for the United States, you'd certainly had enough time to move out of the flat.

While Bond sat smugly in the driver’s seat, Q tried to convince himself that it would be better having his own living space again. No loud music playing at all hours; no having to wait for the shower; no arguing over who stole all the sheets in the middle of the night. On the other hand, you were the only one that knew how to cook and remembered to make him eat. He would have to call the plumber on his own next time the drain clogged up, too.

Bond let Q out of the vehicle without further comment, which led Q to believe that some of his inward trepidation must have shown. This was irritating, but he had stairs to climb and a girlfriend to find. There was hardly any time to spend worrying about what people would be saying about him at work come tomorrow morning.

He had just about convinced himself that everything was fine when he got inside the flat and found it completely dark. Since it was only ten o’ clock in the evening, Q found this odd. With the one hand not hanging his coat up, he flicked on the light.

“[Name]?” he called. No answer.

He heaved a massive sigh. It was true that the two of you were still fighting, but Q had thought the distance would give you time to cool off. Clearly, that was not the case. Maybe the fact that you hadn’t called once to make sure he was still alive should have tipped him off. Sometimes you called him to make sure he was still alive while Q was still in London.

But if you were still upset, Q didn’t want to give you the added pleasure of seeing him fret. As he wandered through the flat, he only half paid attention to the blanket nest in the living room, or the three oven pizza boxes in the trashcan–all signs that you still inhabited the flat. He thought it much more important to focus on making himself look as annoyed as possible. But it was all for naught. Wherever you were, it wasn’t home.

“You don’t need to call her,” he said, aloud since no one was around to hear him. “You _don’t_ need to call her.”

Even as he said it, his fingers found his cellphone. He scowled down at the object for nearly an entire minute. If you weren’t going to bother telling him where you were, then Q didn’t see how it was up to him to inform you that he’d got home in one piece. Unfortunately, the lure of knowing where you were became too great. He typed in your number and waited through the ringing.

The thought that you still might not answer rankled. He was tired. He was hungry. And there you were, traipsing about the country and causing him distress. The least you could have done was leave a note. You knew he was supposed to be home that night.

To Q’s very great surprise, however, you answered on his first try. Or at least, he assumed it was you. The owner of the voice was difficult to discern, considering the very great tumult of noise occurring in the background.

“[Name]!” he shouted. “[Name], are you there?”

“Uh, yeah.” 

Q could barely hear your voice, but he knew you were rolling your eyes. He frowned. “Where are you?”

“Out!”

“Out with whom?”

“My new boyfriend! Victoria, Alton, who else?”

“But why are you out _tonight_?”

“Oh, I’m sorry," you said very sarcastically. "Did you _need_ me or something?”

Theory that you were still angry with him: Confirmed. Q heaved a very martyr-ish sigh. “It would have been nice if you'd let me know you weren’t dead.”

“Huh,” you said. It was some small victory that you were having the conversation with him at all, especially given all the music in whatever club you were at, but Q hardly felt victorious when you continued, “I guess it must be _inconvenient_ when your significant other doesn’t let you know they’re alright for extended periods of time.”

“[Name], is this about my assignment? You weren’t speaking to me when I left.”

“And that automatically means I don’t want to know if you’re safe?” Q had no answer to that. He just wanted this stupid fight to be over. When he did not respond, you scoffed. “Whatever, Alton. I’ll be home in forty-five minutes. There’s leftover stew in the fridge.”

You hung up, leaving the feeling of frustration burning in Q’s chest. He stood there in the dark hallway for a long while, simply staring at his phone. Eventually, though, he had to move. Whether or not you’d poisoned the stew, Q was starving, and it was the only food he had.


	36. Couples Therapy

**Rule #36: We’re more forgiving than we really should be. Don’t you dare take advantage of that.**

Q knew he was in for it as soon as he heard M call for him over the intercom. The smart thing to do would have been to stop what he was doing and go directly to M's office, but Q was busy and reluctant to receive another lecture. M could wait fifteen minutes while Q finished giving instructions to the rest of his department. At least then Q could not get in trouble for that–or so he thought. A rap on the door frame nearby interrupted him mid-sentence.

It took him a moment to gather his thoughts, but when he looked up, he saw exactly what he expected: M leaning against the wall, watching. When their eyes met, the older man crooked a finger and walked off without waiting to see if Q would follow. He did, after a rather extended pause.

“I’ll be right back,” he said dully, then left. No one in his department attempted to keep him from leaving.

He didn’t have to go far. M was waiting for him near the hall, pretending not to listen to the conversation going on between a couple of field agents in the next cubical over. Whatever they were saying must not have been particularly important or interesting, however, because he straightened as soon as he spotted Q and started moving again.

“Have you already gone to lunch?” he asked when Q caught up to him. Q had to admit that he hadn't expected this question. M stopped to stare until Q remembered to answer:

“No.”

“Good.” M placed one hand on Q’s shoulder, the better to steer him toward the front office. “I expect you back to work once your break is over.”

“Break?” Q repeated, but just then they entered the lobby. Everything seemed normal–Eve was simply doing paperwork at her desk–until Q spotted a familiar shape in the chair next to her. He might have stopped to stare, except for M still pushing him along. When he stopped in front of you, you looked up wordlessly.

“Here you are, Miss [L Name]. Still in one piece.”

The smile you gave in answer seemed a little strained. Q opened his mouth to ask what on earth you were doing at his place of work in the middle of the day, especially given that you still weren’t speaking to him at _home_ , but M interrupted by slipping his hand off of Q’s shoulder and into his own pockets.

“I trust you know where to go from here?” Q shot him a questioning look. “The cafeteria. Let me know when you’re done.”

He slipped into his office without further instructions. Q stared long after the door had closed, wishing for a better explanation that never arrived. When he felt a gentle push against his side, he turned his attention to you with a sigh. All you did was lift up your plastic sack of food from the Thai restaurant down the street. Just as silently, he led you back through the winding halls toward the lunch room.

Once there, he selected a vacant table far at the back. Given that he was in the technology department, no one there paid him much mind to begin with, but Q didn’t think he wanted anyone to overhear whatever it was you had to say. The only small consolation he could think of was that at least Bond was off in Australia that day and wouldn’t be around to make things worse.

During the twenty minutes you spent in silence eating, Q wracked his brain for icebreakers. Frustrated as he was with his home situation, he didn’t want anyone at work knowing that. It was up to him to get the ball rolling, but how? The only thing he could think to ask was what you were doing there, and that question would probably cause a row. At last he hazarded asking anyway:

“So…did you have errands in the neighborhood?”

You shook your head and quickly swallowed your mouthful of food. “I wanted to come…talk.”

“Talk,” Q echoed. You hardly spoke more than a sentence a day to him at the flat. What on earth was so important that you had to talk to him right then? “Talk about what?”

You slid your hands into your lap and regarded them quietly for a long half-minute. “About our fight.”

“And you couldn’t wait until I got home?”

“I never know when you’re coming home!” you said, with quite a bit more feeling than anything you’d said to Q in the past two weeks. “And even then you’d probably be too busy to talk.”

“So you just came to make me feel worse. Lovely.”

“Al–” You must have remembered where you were, because you choked up the end of his name. “Q. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”

“Pardon?”

Quite suddenly, you were crying, or almost crying. You hadn’t quite got to the actual noise part, but no small amount of liquid began spilling from your eyes and nose. “I’m really sorry that I got so mad at you about the dress. And I’m sorry that I threatened to break up with you to go out with Benedict Cumberbatch–”

“I wasn’t very worried about that, honestly.”

“–and I’m sorry I didn’t call you while you were on that trip. I just couldn’t take it anymore!”

This was quite a lot take in, given how unexpected your outpouring was. He adjusted his glasses in the awkward silence, and took a deep breath before asking, “Couldn’t take what?”

The breath you drew in was shaky; Q worried that you were about to start crying in earnest. Surprisingly, after you drew a sleeve across your upper lip, your words came out quite clear and calm:

“You have such an exciting life. You get to go places and do things. I know you don’t like it, but I stay home most of the time. M offered me a chance to go do something exciting and safe, and you got so upset.”

“Because I was _worried_ about you. Mr. Bond doesn’t exactly have a clean track record of keeping his partners alive.”

“I know. But it was _my_ decision and…you’re kind of a control freak, Q.”

Q pushed away his now-empty container to focus his attention on you. As much as he didn’t want to have this conversation at work, he _was_ eager to have done with the fight–not that he really appreciated your last comment. “How so?”

“It’s like that with everything. I always have to use coasters. We have to have sex on the bed. If you’re working, I’m not supposed to bother you. No, we can’t have takeout. You already got everything on the grocery list for this week. It feels like I can’t do _anything_ without your permission and that…that _sucks_ ,” you finished lamely.

“I only–”

“It’s just,” you spoke over him, “that I _am_ an adult, Al–Q. And I’m not an idiot. You have to learn to trust me sometime.”

Q stared at you for a while after that, waiting for you to continue. You did not. Finally, he thought he had better add something to the proceedings himself. “I _do_ trust you. I wouldn’t’ve let you move in if I didn’t, or I’d make you go stay with your parents while I was out of town. I just don’t think you understand the magnitude of what we’re doing here. People die, [Name], and _they’re_ trained. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

“It was just a ball..”

“I know. But I wish you would have asked me first.”

Slowly, you nodded as you took this in. “I was afraid you’d say no.”

“Probably,” he admitted. “But we could have talked about it, like we are now. Maybe we could’ve come to a compromise.”

“Yeah,” you sighed, but almost immediately jumped up with a loud yelp. Q was about to ask you what was going on, but you answered before he could: “It’s been almost an hour! You’re going to be late getting back to work.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s not like it’s a long commute.” Still, Q stood up himself. “I should be getting back, though. Want me to walk you to the front?”

“If–If you _want_ to.”

“Let’s go, then.” He paused only long enough to gather the remains of the Thai food and dump them in the rubbish bin on the way out. When you both got to the lobby, M’s door was open. He nodded upon seeing Q and went back to reading. “See you at home?”

“Yeah,” you said, so quietly that Q almost couldn’t hear. Then, as if you knew he’d protest if he knew what was coming, you quickly wrapped your arms around him and pressed your face into his shoulder. “Does this mean we’re not fighting anymore?”

He patted you once on the back and disengaged. A quick look at Miss Moneypenny’s face told him she had seen the entire thing; he tried not to blush too obviously as he waved you out. “We’re not fighting anymore. And we’ll talk more later.”

Your smile was both relieved and watery that time. Q caught only a glimpse of it before you darted back outside. He didn’t wait to hear M or Miss Moneypenny’s commentary; he just left. As he settled back into his desk five minutes later, however, his chest felt lighter than it had in weeks.


	37. Cover Girl

**Rule #37: When we compare our flabby tummy to a kangaroo pouch, say nothing.**

It was only in desperation to get things back to normal that Q to agreed to bring you along to the office Christmas party that year. If not for you, he wouldn’t have bothered going at all. A bunch of normally rational adults drunk off their rockers and making endless “sexy Santa Clause” quips? Forgive him, but he’d much rather stay home and do some actual work. The chances for embarrassment were much lessened at his flat.

He very carefully avoided mentioning the party for the several awkward weeks that followed the end of your argument. How you found out about it happening, he didn’t know. Possibly Bond had mentioned it, but Q hadn’t seen him with you recently. It seemed to him that you must have been meeting Bond without Q there, and, though it bothered him, the recent fight was fresh enough in his mind to prevent his inquiring.

However you had got hold of the fact that MI6 was celebrating the holidays did not change Q’s following situation. He did not _want_ to go to the party. _You_ did. As you pointed out when you brought the subject up, _you_ did not have a company Christmas Party to attend yourself. 

“If it’s so important to you, why don’t you get a _real_ job at an office so you can go to _that_ office’s Christmas party?” is what Q _wanted_ to say in response. But there it was: that little flutter in his chest that reminded him not to screw things up. All he could do was try to distract you.

“Do we really _need_ to go? We could always stay here and…cuddle.” Cuddling, unfortunately, tempted you not at all. Q probably should have offered sex, but he wasn’t sure if he was _that_ desperate. In the end, he had no choice but to agree to take you with him, but that was not the close of his miseries. He also had to pretend that he wanted to go.

Maybe this was a stupid assumption on his part. As far as he could tell, you had gone back to behaving as though the month’s long silence between the two of you had never happened. You were trying, he supposed, to make things better: you no longer followed him to work, or left long voice mails on his phone while he was away, or teased him so relentlessly in front of Bond. And yet Q could not drop the niggling sensation that you would pounce upon his first misstep.

So he bought the Secret Santa present. He helped you pick which dress to wear. He sat in the kitchen, staring blankly toward the hallway, waiting for you to finish getting ready so the two of you could leave. All of this Q endured courteously, or at least with passivity–that is, until you wandered into the room and asked:

“Alton, does this dress make me look fat?”

Q froze. He had been halfway off his chair with the present in his hands when you had spoken. Stuck at such an angle, he looked ridiculous as well as sounding it when, scrambling for time to think, he answered with a question of his own:

“What?”

“This dress.” You frowned, pinching at the fabric covering your belly. “Do I look fat in it? Or am I just getting fat?”

His mouth opened and closed enough that he must have given a passing impression of a fish. Several responses entered his head, only to be rejected immediately. He didn’t think you looked fat in the slightest, but how to tell you that? Rejecting the suggestion that you were overweight when your relationship was in such a state might only indicate that Q thought your appearance lacking in other departments. Agreeing with your being fat might set off a crying jag. Saying it was just the dress would probably cause you to change clothes–and you were already late as it is!

Before he could voice an opinion or lack thereof, however, you chuckled and pinched the fabric again. “It’s like a little kangaroo pouch. Wouldn’t it to be neat if I had a kangaroo pouch? Not for babies, obviously. Art supplies would cool, though. Or snacks.”

Q could only deadpan at this casual return to your oddball tendencies. He sighed as he straightened at last. You stopped playing with your stomach and looked up at him when you felt his hand on your shoulder.

“You look wonderful,” he said with some feeling. “Let’s get going.”

The quick kiss you pressed to his cheek told Q that, for once, he’d actually said the right thing.


	38. No Scientific Method Required

**Rule #38: You look hot in hooded clothing items. Always.**

Vacations with you never went as planned–probably because you deliberately avoided any plans Q might have had to begin with. He wanted to get up and see things; you wanted to stay in bed and take your time. He had a schedule to maximize efficiency; you did everything by the seat of your pants. He got ready and presentable in a reasonable amount of time; you took ages, _and_ all the hot water. This was not a general rule. It was an absolute scientific fact.

When you _did_ finally get dressed, pick a place for breakfast, and agree to let him lead the way for the rest of the day, it was not without frequent concessions on his part. It was not even eleven in the morning on the first day of your visit to Stratford-upon-Avon that you began to complain very persistently of your need to relieve yourself.

“I told you not to drink all that orange juice at breakfast,” he sighed.

“I couldn’t help it! I was thirsty!”

“Thirsty enough for _four glasses_?”

“You don’t know me.”

“I have lived with you for over a year. I’d hazard that I’m fairly aware of your habits at this point.”

Then you started looking as though you were about to switch from pouting to genuine crying, and Q had no choice but to let you duck into a nearby store to use the restroom. He supposed that he would have to go inside himself in a few minutes to drag you away from some pretty bauble you wanted to sketch out for some reason or another. Lord knew there would be nothing pretty to sketch at the next stop for the day: Shakespeare’s home and gardens.

You could not force your bladder to remain empty, Q knew that. He also knew you could have probably drank less at breakfast. After the ordeal of getting you out of bed (you did not have a job and slept in every single day. Why did you have to do it during _vacation_ , too?), he was in no mood to be charitable. Fortunately, he was also not in the mood to argue with you seriously, as it was the first vacation he’d had in a very long time.

Q didn’t like taking time off. He worried constantly about whether or not his temporary replacement would mess up all his plans, blueprints, files, and weapons closets–or, even worse, be better at the job. That, more than anything, was probably why he always brought you along on these trips even though neither of you saw eye to eye on the definition of “time off.” Whenever he started to fret about what was going on at work, you reminded him what he'd dragged you along to see.

“Okay! Ready!” you sang as you exited the shop with a jangle of the bells tied to the inside handle.

Q straightened, confused. “Already?”

“Sure. I don’t want to put a damper on your day out on the town. Hey.” You pinched the fabric on his upper arm. “Are you wearing what I think you’re wearing?”

“A jacket?” Q suggested.

“Yeah, but is this the jacket I got you to replace the one Tommy and Danny ruined?”

Q felt very faintly embarrassed. When you’d given him the coat, he had made a point of saying nothing about it, since you had said nothing about it. The package had just appeared on his desk one morning during the fight, and he had neither mentioned receiving it, nor worn it in the interim time. “It was the closest thing I had when I was packing, and it’s cold.”

A grin whipped across your face as you whirled around in a circle. “You like it! You really like it!”

“It’s nothing impressive,” he said, in a mad attempt to get you to calm down long enough to get you to Shakespeare’s house. “I just need it to stay warm.”

It was probably a very insulting thing to say, but when you stopped dancing about, you remained smiling. “I know. I couldn’t afford to get you a real replacement, so I just got the closest thing I could. This one’s got a hood, but it’s not as cute as your old one. Maybe I can get you an exact duplicate for your birthday.”

“Don’t worry about it. This does the job. I’ll just wear this whenever Ronald’s children come by. That way we’ll be able to afford a new jacket every time they spill something on it.”   
Since you did not seem to be inclined to begin moving, he took your hand and began to lead you toward your destination. 

“Hm, that doesn’t seem quite fair.” You gasped. “I know! For the rest of the trip, I’ll do whatever you say so you have really, really good time.”

“That would be weird. How about you just promise not to whine that you’re bored while we’re at the next stop?”

You appeared to think about that for half a second before nodding deeply. “Deal! No whining at the next stop. But I can’t promise not to pee again. I think I drank way too much juice at breakfast. Is there another stop somewhere soon? I might explode.”

Q sighed. Some things never changed.


	39. Social Experiments

**Rule #39: You should never tell a girl what to do. Ever.**

Saturday was errand day, much to Q’s chagrin. He had half a dozen things to put together for work that coming week, including a long-range hacking device still sitting on his table in the flat. Being around crowds made him tired. If he did as you suggested and went to the mall, he would likely spend the rest of the afternoon in a haze of exhaustion. You, of course, wouldn't listen.

“You haven’t left the house in four days! Now _get up_!”

So there he was, wandering dejectedly after you through the mall. Q could not fathom for the life of himself just why he was there. He knew nothing about clothes–especially those of the mundane quality sold in the stores you frequented–hated the sounds of squalling children that so pervaded the mall atmosphere, and you would not even let him carry the bags. “They’re my clothes. I can manage them, Alton,” you had said. What did that leave him? Following in your wake with his hands jammed inside his jacket pockets while trying not to look too surly.

“[Name],” he said in surly fashion when you paused again to adjust your purchases in your hands. Normally Q would have hated to hear his voice hitting that sort of whine, but then again, “It’s been _three hours_. Are you _quite_ finished?”

You looked up suddenly; Q found himself freezing. If he had just crossed some sort of line, he was sure to be at the mall for the rest of the day. He tried his best to stand straight and calm as you approached–only to find that all you did upon arrival was to pat one of his cheeks. Waiting for an answer turned out to be a waste of time, as you immediately turned back toward the nearest storefront. “This is the last stop. But, uh…”

“But what?” Q asked. You’d barely twisted your head toward him, but he didn’t need you to answer this time. His eyes drifted upward and there, right above your head, was the sign for the local tech store. The look on your face was clear: You knew _exactly_ what his reaction was going to be.

“ _Please_ don’t embarrass me this time,” you said.

“Embarrass you!” Q spluttered.

“Last time we came here, you threw a scene–”

“Because they sell glorified _junk_! They should be ashamed of themselves and–”

“I just need a half-decent tablet pen until my nice new one arrives in the mail,” you said, throwing your hands up into the air. 

Q blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “Did you send the last one through the wash again?”

“Maybe. Look, you just stay out here. I’ll be back in–”

“No. I’m coming in.”

“Fine,” you grumbled, and fixed your gaze straight ahead, as though you were determined to pretend that Q wasn’t there at all. His hunch proved to be true. You marched inside with your head held high and did not so much as glance in his direction once you started aimlessly wandering the aisles in search of a cheap tablet pen. This behavior might have gone on indefinitely, had an employee wearing a starched white shirt not appeared out of seemingly nowhere at your elbow.

“May I help you, miss?”

If Q had not been resolved to prove that he could be there and not embarrass you, he might have told the man there was no possible way anyone could be helped at this store. Even the organization made absolutely no sense. Pathetic–but, as it was, he held his tongue, though he did not have enough self-control to entirely prevent himself making a face. Lucky for him that your back was turned.

“I just need a tablet pen,” you answered brightly. “Nothing too fantastic, just to hold me over.”

“Ah! Right this way.”

Q apparently had ceased to exist. You did not even check to see if he was following as you toddled after Arnold or Aaron or whatever the bloody hell the store clerk’s name tag read. Did it really matter? He still wouldn’t be able to find anything good or explain it half as well as Q could. Since he didn’t trust himself to "not embarrass you," Q hung back as he watched the employee pull one pen off the shelf and start to innumerate the many, many qualities that that pen didn’t have.

Surely you knew, Q reasoned. You were the artist, not he. You were the one that constantly had to replace your things because you ruined them while doing the laundry, not he. You must have bought enough tablet pens by now to know when you were being lied to. He told himself this again and again, but unfortunately he could see even from the far end of the aisle that you were falling for this spiel hook, line, and sinker.

“And it only costs how much?” you asked as you took the pen and gave it a good look. Still your eyes remained bright and shining; there was no doubting that you believed every sugar-coated word that had been fed to you.

“37.89 pounds.”

“ _What_?” That was the final straw. Was Q really going to just stand there and let his girlfriend be led astray by an absolute moron? Faint color started to creep up your neck, but he didn’t care. He was already walking up to the man, who could only manage a faint sort of smile when Q came to a stop directly in front of him.

“Sir, I am helping another customer. If you could just wait…”

“I’m with her,” Q said waspishly. “And even if I were to wait, I doubt that you could help me at all.” It was times like this that he wished that he could just come forward with his work at MI6. _That_ would shut this gormless git up, that was for sure. Probably thought he was special, getting work at this sort of store.

“Alton,” you broke in.

“I’m sorry, [Name], but I cannot let this go. This pen,” Q yanked it from your hands, “is absolute rubbish. 38 pounds for something that will break with any sort of regular use? A two-week warranty on this won’t do a lick of good. It’ll break right after, and we’ll have to come get another. Not to mention that this particular model of this brand hardly does anything more than make indents on your screen.”

The employee was coloring by now, and his was a much darker shade of red than yours. “Are you suggesting that I’m lying?” he demanded. 

Q took a deep breath as he pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’m suggesting that you don’t have any idea what you are talking about.” His turning his back on the man was a clear dismissal, though Q doubted he would leave. After a moment of looking around the shelves, Q found precisely what you were looking for. “Get this one.” He held out a different package. “It’s around the same price and doesn’t come with as many supposed bells and whistles, but it’s more durable. Should get you until you can get that other one you want.”

For a few seconds, you just blinked. Then you took the new tablet pen from Q with a quiet, “Thank you.”

Sure enough, when Q turned around, the man was still there. At least he no longer looked so similar to a cherry. In fact, now the store employee looked rather pale. Q decided to take pity on him and not suggest that he begin his self-improvement by actually reading the product descriptions. “We’re ready to checkout now,” is what he said instead. Maybe the man appreciated that. He was polite, if mostly quiet, throughout the entire process. You were too, as the two of you exited the mall.

“[Name],” Q began, “I am sorry. I didn’t want to embarrass you, but I couldn’t just let him rip you off like that right in front of me. Did you want…”

But he trailed away at your laughter, and for once that day you actually deigned to explain yourself: “I asked you to come along with me so you’d protect me. You know how excited I get around things like that, but I knew if you were there, I’d probably get out of things alright. You simply can't resist correcting people.”

For a moment, Q was only capable of gaping at you. “Then why did you tell me not to embarrass you?” he asked, exasperated. 

At that, you only grinned. “Well, you _could_ be a little nicer about it. You still could. But…” Your nose wrinkled for a moment, but soon you were smiling again. “You’re getting better, Alton. You really are.”

Q said nothing. The more time went by, the more he realized that you understood him remarkably well. He, on the other hand, was no closer to understanding you than the day you met. Was it good that someone like you thought he was getting better? At this juncture, Q just couldn't say.


	40. Greater Than the Needs of the Many

**Rule #40: Any decent man will ask a girl out to her face. If you aren’t man enough to ask us out to our face, how do we know you’ll be man enough to be our boyfriend at all?**

Q had yet to figure out the appeal of spending Friday nights out in public, surrounded by crowds and noise during a time that was–as far as he could tell–supposed to be romantic. There was nothing romantic about having one’s feet stepped on incessantly, nor being unable to hear your partner’s conversation, he felt. Not that this had stopped date night this particular week from being set at a very loud, very long jazz dance event. He could practically feel his brain cells dying.

“Remind me again why we’re here?” he murmured during a lull from the band. It was still difficult to hear himself over the laughter and clapping, but likely Q wouldn’t have another chance to inquire for another ten minutes. He would like to be prepared with something to be annoyed about for the duration of the next number.

He only asked anyway because you didn’t appear to be enjoying yourself any more than he was. It was one thing for _him_ to be miserable at such functions and quite another for you. That was what was bothering him most of all: You didn’t seem to be in any vindictive mood that would lead you to torture yourself all night just to torture him. So why did you remain staunchly in your seat, watching things play out with one of your most bored expressions on your face?

“[Name],” Q said, leaning toward your ear when the band started up again with no response from you. “Why are we _here_?”

You gave a theatrical sort of jump in your seat, proving once and for all that your mind was anywhere but on this dance party you’d been planning to attend all week. After having made sure that it really was just Q speaking, you gave him a weak smile. One hand went up to check the status of the elaborate 1940s curls you’d clearly been working on all day while he was at the office. Still in place–though he had noticed that you had not gone the extra mile with your dress. It was the very same one you’d worn on your mission with Bond. He wasn’t sure whether or not to be flattered or annoyed at the choice.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” he pointed out. You blinked a few times, then returned your gaze to the dance floor. Q really thought he had been summarily dismissed until you casually leaned back toward him.

“Vick isn’t sure about her date,” you whispered, so quietly that Q had to strain further than ever to hear over the presently blaring saxophone solo. Once his brain had finally comprehended the soft noise as words, he settled back again in his uncomfortable metal folding chair with nothing more than an:

“Ah. I see.” He didn’t, though, and soon he was moving his entire chair closer to yours. No one could hear the banging or scrapping over the din inside anyhow. “Why does that mean that _we_ have to be here?”

You shook your head, your eyes glued to the dancing couple closest to you. Anxious, perhaps, that one of them was about to jive straight into your lap. “He’s some guy from work. She doesn’t know him very well. He’s a little…odd.”

“Odd how?”

“Well, Vicky’s not sure but she sees him loitering around places she goes, so she thinks he might follow her. Then he had a friend of hers ask her out on this. I suppose she just wanted backup in case things went south.”

This did make some sense. However, what either you or Q was supposed to do to help in the case of things “going south,” he had no idea. Neither of you were particularly adept in the ways of self-defense. Ronald would seem the go-to cousin for bodyguard work, not you. “So we’re babysitting,” he clarified. It figured you hadn’t invited him to a dance for any actual dancing. Not after the last fiasco, at any rate.

You cracked a small smile. “Yeah. I don’t see much of a point anymore, though. I think she did a fine job terrifying him off herself.”

Q scanned the crowded room until he spotted Victoria’s dark head of hair among the dancing throng. She was smiling for once, and her dance partner most certainly was not the burly young gentleman she had arrived with two hours prior. Another quick scan, and that man was found sitting sulkily at a table in a distant corner. Q cleared his throat.

“Quite. Do you suppose she needs our continued assistance in keeping track of this one? Or perhaps the date she scorned?”

“That’s her _boyfriend_ , Al. I think he can take care of her now.” His dumbstruck look only caused your laugh to lengthen. “I don’t know, Alton. They’re in an open relationship. He probably had work and couldn’t get here on time.”

“But still! Why agree to go out with the creepy guy from work in the first place? Why ask us of all people to check up on her?”

“Dunno,” you sighed, looking back toward the jazz band and tapping your toes. “Vicky’s kinda weird like that.”

“I’m starting to think you’re the _normal_ one in your family,” he groused. “Can we go now?”

The look on your face was enough to give him the answer. You answered anyway. “I sorta…promised we’d stay for the whole thing.”

“[Name]! What is it that you plan to _do_ for the rest of the evening?”

Your eyebrows slowly lifted. “Dance?” you suggested.

“Do you want me to break your toe again?” Q asked lifting his eyebrows right back. You opened your mouth to protest, but Q did not let you. “I have a suggestion.”

Clearly you were as desperate for release as he was, because for once you didn’t look too suspicious. “What kind of plan?”

“The kind of plan that will only make _me_ look bad. I _am_ the one known for throwing tantrums at these functions, am I not? Maybe you’re not, but I’m about ready to call it an evening.”

A look of dawning comprehension and disbelief crossed your face. But you were as desperate as Q believed you to be, obviously, since you snatched his hand and gave it a grateful squeeze. That was all the encouragement he needed. Thankfully, this number was quickly coming to an end. He stood, straightened his tie, and made a beeline in Victoria’s direction. The sacrifices he made for you. At least this one benefited him just as much as it did you.


	41. General Advice

**Rule #41: Girls are very impressed when you ask them for advice–unless it’s about another girl.**

For as long as Q could remember, you had been sensitive to his mood. Sometimes you were even _annoyingly_ sensitive to his mood. Half the time you knew what he felt even when he would have sworn that he had felt perfectly fine until you popped up to “fix” things–and all this during times that you were frequently the _cause_ of his distress! Now he needed you. He needed you badly. And for once, you couldn’t seem to sense his desperation at all.

“[Name]. Have you been listening to a word I've said?” he asked crossly, after having revealed the entire sordid tale to you one evening. 

Your headphones–a present from him after the last musical catastrophe–hung around your neck, but still the distant sound of Adele issued from them. Even having snapped at you had no discernible effect; you continued to pencil in something on the easel before you, tongue flicking at the edge of your lower lip. Q let out a sharp snort and opened his mouth to demand your focus again, but apparently you were paying enough attention to notice _that_.

“Yes, Alton, I heard. Eve’s mad at you, right?”

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.” Though not a way that he anted to, and, since you phrased it that way, he assumed you had only been half-listening to his complaint after all. “If you ask _me_ , the whole affair is utterly ridiculous. She has no reason to be upset. I was simply highlighting a difference between our two jobs.”

“Right.”

“[Name].”

“What? I’m listening.”

“So you agree that Miss Moneypenny is being utterly nonsensical?”

Your tongue worked again at the corner of your mouth, but you said nothing. Whatever you said to the contrary, it was quite obvious to Q that you weren’t giving him the time of day. This project of yours had enveloped you two days ago. There were times when frankly he was _relieved_ to have you busy with something that wasn't him, but he was in rather dire need of your assistance at present. Surely you could show him the same courtesy he showed you when you interrupted his various missions. He wouldn’t call an advertisement for a fruit packaging company life or death exactly.

“[Name]!”

You jumped, smudging some detail or other on your sketch, then blinked up at him with a scowl. “ _What_?” you asked with obvious and unnecessary annoyance.

“What should I do about Miss Moneypenny?”

“Do?” you echoed. “What do you need to do about her?”

Q let out an exaggerated sigh. Was he being overly dramatic? Yes. But after the many, _many_ times you had been overly dramatic throughout the years, he felt that he was owed a bit of allowance for drama. “She’s making work miserable. If this keeps up, I won’t be able to go into the office for the next month.”

“So ask M if you can spend the next month at home. You’ve done it before.”

“Not for a _month_.” Really, was it too much to ask that you look at him while he was talking? You were the one begging for a heart to heart every other week, and now that you had it, you showed no interest at all. Women were entirely incomprehensible; Q wondered how on earth Bond managed to enjoy them as often as he did. Just one was enough to drive Q mad. “I’m being serious here, [Name]. I can’t spend the rest of my career dodging Miss Moneypenny.”

You allowed him a single glance before going back to what you were doing. “Did you try talking to her?”

“ _Talking_ to her?” Q repeated incredulously. “When she’s carrying on like I did something heinous, like drown her grandmother’s dog? Oh, like I would do something like that,” he added irritably at the first and only show of genuine attention you’d given him all afternoon. Upon being reassured that your boyfriend was not, in fact, an animal abuser, you went on as before. It was as though he had simply vanished, or turned opaque and began to blend with the wallpaper. He lifted a hand to rest his cheek on it as he waited for some piece of advice. Nothing came.

Q got to his feet as you started to hum along once more with the music blasting through your earpieces. “Talking’s out, as is skipping work. I don’t suppose you have one more idea? Just one? No? _Fantastic_.” All this said while marching backward out of the room. He could whine all he wanted, he decided. Not only was he being entirely ignored, but you were forcing him to do something very, very unpleasant–and that was turn to _Bond_ for advice. Hopefully your silly fruit packaging company appreciated the extreme sacrifice he was making on their behalf.


	42. Follow the Leader

**Rule #42: We’re unimpressed by a man that doesn’t take the lead.**

Of course, there was nothing Bond could do. The indignity of it all! Q had gone to all the trouble of going to Bond’s place of residence–after texting first, of course; Q wasn’t a barbarian–and then pouring out his problems in the hopes of some suggestion one way or the other, and all he’d got for it was Bond laughing in his face. Even waiting through that hadn’t resulted in anything more than a pat on the back and some patronizing words about women being mysterious creatures. As though spending several years with you hadn’t already taught him _that_!

So Q was forced to continue as he had been. There was no way he was about to give Miss Moneypenny the satisfaction of knowing she had run him off. No, he had to endure: endure sidelong glowers whenever he deigned to be in her presence, endure catty remarks made to the rest of the Q department behind his back, and–worst of all–endure this all in silence. You would be made even more difficult to live with if he went so far as to confess again to his work troubles. He could just hear you reminding him to just _talk_ to Miss Moneypenny now.

“As though Miss Moneypenny will even consider speaking to me,” he grumbled as he exited the employee locker room two weeks after his brave stabs at hunting for advice. Any plans he may or may not have had to crawl out the bathroom window were utterly dashed when he saw how far off the floor they were. Did he really think he was going to be okay traipsing about the underground looking like a vagrant with his clothes wrinkled and his hair a mess? No. No he did not. Only now his singular option was to walk past Miss Moneypenny's desk and out the front door.

With a deep breath, he readied himself for the sprint. His hand tightened around the handle of his messenger bag; his back snapped straight. If he didn’t look at her, then it would be as though she didn’t exist. He kept his eyes glued to the door. It was working; the exit was getting closer. Soon he would be out, free, able to–

“And where do you think _you’re_ going?”

Q came to a stop with his hand on the doorknob. He had been _so_ close. Unable to entirely suppress an exasperated sigh, he turned back toward the desk. Sure enough, Miss Moneypenny was still there. Her perfectly manicured fingers drummed a tattoo on the hard surface. Clearly he was expected to make his way over there now. He mashed his lips together and shuffled to the desk. “Does M have another take home assignment for me?” he asked.

Miss Moneypenny sniffed. “Hardly.” Then, before he could ask what on earth she wanted with him, she went on: “I got a call from [Name] this afternoon.”

His heart sank all the way to his toes. This sort of thing was why he really ought to consider going home for lunch–that, and the fact that being at work was miserable these days. If he had been at his flat instead, perhaps he would have been able to prevent you bothering his coworkers over the phone. Unlikely, but perhaps. As he took another deep breath, Q adjusted his glasses. “I do apologize for her behavior. I’ll speak with her about it when I get home.”

“It was on my cellphone, Q.”

“Oh,” he said. “What?”

She ignored his confusion over how close she and you were. “Apparently our little fight a few weeks ago has got you in a tizzy.”

“I would hardly call it a tizzy,” said Q, feeling his cheeks burn. It was bad enough that you had called his coworker, but you had to exaggerate his feelings as well? “It’s only–well–I suppose it’s been a bit uncomfortable at work.” Not that you ought to have even known that, considering how busy you had been with your project.

“Hm, I had noticed you’d been avoiding me lately.” Having lived with you this long, Q was well aware that saying anything at this point was likely to do nothing more than dig him a deeper hole. He _had_ been avoiding Miss Moneypenny, and any of her usual associates, but to tell her why was not going to help his cause. She sighed. “I say it’s about time to let bygones be bygones. The two of us will never see eye to eye on the matter. If this is making it difficult for you to work, there’s no point in pressing the issue, wouldn’t you say?”

All of this made it sound as though Miss Moneypenny found no fault on her side of the argument at all. Q was very tempted to inform how wrong such a view was–but she was right. It _was_ difficult to work, and he was tired of eating at his desk and hanging about in the locker room until he could be reasonably assured everyone else had gone home for the day. Instead of bringing his feelings on the matter up, he simply gave Miss her a stiff nod.

“Good,” she said, returning the nod. Her hand found a pen and her eyes went to the stack of paperwork. Assuming he was dismissed, Q took a step backward, only for Miss Moneypenny’s eyes to snap back up to him. “Next time, Q, I suggest you to come to me when we’re having a tiff, rather than your girlfriend. She’s a lovely girl, but it’s not really any of her business.”

“I’ll consider that, yes,” Q said with his best attempt at sounding prim. As he ducked out the door and walked briskly up the street, however, he privately thought to himself that he wouldn’t be bringing any problems up with you ever again, if your answer was going to be embarrassing him like that each time. Then again–and you would never catch him admitting so to your face–he hadn’t really told you when you’d been paying attention, and your methods did seem effective. It probably wouldn't hurt to have it happen again, if the occasion returned.


	43. Fashion 101

**Rule #43: When in doubt, go with the shirt that matches your eye color.**

Let it never be said that your artistic prowess went entirely unappreciated by those within your inner circle. Every so often, your college degree did prove itself to be useful–though certainly not in any way that could really rationalize your tuition costs and spending so many years perfecting your skills, in Q’s opinion. If it only helped fruit packaging companies and hummus distributors, it would be a sorry field of expertise indeed. At least sometimes you could help him along with it, too.

The weeks leading up to the fateful evening had seen him more tense and irritable than usual. He was sure that you had noticed that, since you had taken up disappearing to do laundry or go grocery shopping whenever he got home. Yes, things with Miss Moneypenny had straightened out for the most part, but that was simply luck on Q’s part. There was no amount of phone calls you could make to get him out of _this_ particular situation.

“I’m not sure if this is the right one either,” Q said, as he looked himself up and down in the floor length mirror hung on the door to his side of the closet. He pulled at the bow tie slung around his neck. Even without that aspect of the outfit completed, the whole ensemble was still, “ _too_ professional, don’t you think?”

You looked up from the magazine you were pouring over in an attempt to avoid him while lounging on the bed. Q caught a glimpse of your eyes moving slowly up and down his body, and only just prevented himself rolling his eyes. Now was _not_ the time to roll around in the sheets. Couldn’t you see that he was in a time of crisis?

“ _I_ think you look hot," was your reply.

Apparently not. Q _did_ roll his eyes this time. “Unfortunately, I need to impress my middle-aged boss. Not my young, muliebral girlfriend.”

“His loss,” you said with a shrug, then returned to your magazine with a quiet scoff of, “ _muliebral_."

Q returned his gaze to his appearance in the mirror. His dressing properly for work the following morning was imperative. He needed to strike just the right amount of confidence and subordination. Too much of the former and he risked losing everything. Too much of the latter and he risked gaining much more than he wanted at present. No, he had plans, and those plans did _not_ involve being shunted to another department where he would be more “welcome.”

The next thing he heard was a faint grumble from the bed and the sound of a magazine being put down none too carefully. When he did not turn around again to give you the attention you so apparently desired, you were forced to speak:

“What are you so worried about? It’s just the annual review. Normally you’re excited over getting a raise.”

He deigned to give you a side-eye. “It hasn’t been a good year.”

“Really?” _There_ was some undeniable proof that you hadn’t listened to half the things Q had been saying to you for the past twelve months. Though to be fair, he really wasn’t supposed to tell you half the things he’d told you. It was probably for the best that you didn’t remember. He felt peevish, however, and not at all inclined to give you that point.

“Well, let’s see here. I connected a terrorist’s computer to the mainframe of our secret headquarters, let you walk through the front door on a regular basis, failed to update several weapons in time for use in missions, and once let such vital information go that said muliebral girlfriend had to stay in the basement until we found the bastard that took it.” Q ticked each of these off with a finger. “Anything else?”

Instead of listing any ofthe admittedly impressive feats that he had _also_ accomplished, you simply stared at him. The magazine laying on the pillow next to you went unnoticed, rather like Q had when he had needed your advice about Miss Moneypenny. He waited, and waited, and waited, and then was rewarded–with movement. You shoved the crumpled magazine aside, then came to stand beside him by the mirror, in front of the mound of clothes that he had already rejected that evening for one reason or another, or perhaps a fit of pique.

“Here,” you said after a long moment. Q reached out to take the offered green shirt with a sigh.

“[Name], I already decided I can’t wear this one.” There wasn’t much left in his closet, to be honest, but Q was in the mood to be difficult.

“Just put it on,” you commanded.

With a shake of his head, Q peeled off his current shirt to shrug yours on. Once it was settled on his shoulders, you began to adjust the collar. Another few seconds to make sure that this all looked fine, and you reached out to pull a nice tie out of the pile, which you then put into place with a flourish. “There,” you announced. He decided to humor you and stepped back to the mirror again. You followed to tug here and there where the fabric had bunched up. “It matches your eyes,” you explained absently. “If you wear the black jacket, it’ll jazz the whole number up just right. Won’t look like you’re emulating Mr. Bond, but you’ll look nice. Just like a real quartermaster.”

To his great surprise, Q could see it. How he hadn’t seen it before could only be attributed to the great amount of stress he was under. You and your over-sized sweaters and the uncut hair pulled back with clips to keep it out of your ink spoke not at all of your actual talents when it came to color pallets, obviously. It would work. Something in his expression must have given his surrender away, because you grinned at his reflection in the mirror and slapped the small of his back.

“You’re gonna do fine, Al.”

“Of course I’ll do fine. Thank you, [Name].” He undid his tie and began to remove the shirt so that he could get it ironed and ready for duty early the next day. As he left, though, one thing sank in. Q returned to the doorway and frowned at you. “Don’t call me Al.”

“Don’t call me muliebral,” you shot back.

Whatever the result of his annual review, at least Q could rest certain that he somehow passed your inspection on a daily basis. How he did that was beyond him, but if he could manage that, he would absolutely manage to pass inspection by MI6.


	44. Drive Me Wild

**Rule #44: You’re sexy when you’re shaving, fixing things, wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, driving, eating a peach, holding a baby...just about all the time.**

Q could not shake the feeling that he was being watched–not just watched, but watched closely and incessantly. The morning had begun innocuously enough: He had woken up at six o’ clock, as was usual for his Saturdays, and went straight to the bathroom to complete his morning routine. It might have been the weekend and his day off, but you had a long to do list and he wanted to make sure he could get his things done before your things started. The shower went fine. Dressing went fine. It was while he was carefully ridding his cheeks of that fuzz you had found so strangely attractive that he started to feel quite a bit odd.

There was absolutely no reason for you to be up so early. You didn’t climb out of bed until close to noon even on weekdays. The eyes he felt could not have been yours, then. He could have ignored the creeping feeling, but being a member of England’s secret service meant that Q could not just dismiss the thought that he was being spied on. He looked carefully around the bathroom, even opened the blinds to peer out the window. Nothing. No one.

Perhaps he was just being paranoid.

He moved on to the kitchen, poured himself a bowl of cornflakes (minus the milk; you had forgotten that during your many recent grocery trips), and sat down in his office to take apart a grenade launcher. Out of deference to your sleep schedule–or rather, out of deference to his own desire to have as much time as possible for his own activities–Q kept the light off. This required him to squint closely at the wiring, but he didn’t mind. At least, he didn't mind until he felt eyes on him again. He turned to the open door. Nothing. He even stepped out into the hallway to check. Still nothing and no one.

Maybe he should have considered going back to bed.

An hour later, he discovered the laundry room downstairs was closed. Most of Q’s clothing was dry clean only, of course, but he did have enough foresight to own some nice clothing he could wash himself. The clothes that he _planned_ to wear on weekends when on errands with you, for instance. Now there was that plan shot. Feeling more rankled by the minute, Q returned to the flat to pull on what remained of his clothes: a white t-shirt and a pair of jeans. There were the eyes again. This time, he didn’t even bother to look. He trudged back out to the kitchen and found, as usual, no one watching him.

If they would just go ahead and off him, perhaps Q would not have to deal with the rest of what was shaping up to be a very bad day.

To further his chagrin, you errands required a good jaunt out of London to one of the outlying townships. There were supplies there that you wanted to pick up. When asked if you could not have just ordered them to be delivered, you responded with not wanting to pay shipping–which only meant that you wanted to see some scenery and get out of the flat for a few hours. It didn't matter. Plans were plans, and, as Q had promised to take you on errands that day, he had no choice but to get into his borrowed company car and head to the pickup sight. All along the way, he felt an intense prickling sensation, like a pair of eyes that refused to leave his face.

You were the only person in the car, however, and were fast asleep whenever he peeked over at you. He was beginning to suspect some sort of device was watching him, rather than a person. How was beyond him. Q was quite sure he’d picked over the entire car before he’d left the flat.

Of course, this entire venture turned out to be a poor excuse to visit your sister, the one that was not a pushy attorney...not that Elizabeth was much better, or liked you more than Susan did. It was clear to Q that every inch of your sister was screaming for you to leave, and it drove him mad. You could, perhaps, be a little flighty, but absolutely never with your nieces and nephews. When at last the snide attitude of your relatives became too much, he made some excuse to hole himself up in the kitchen with a snack. The peach did little to soothe his disquiet. Not only did he feel frustrated that he had to watch this sort of treatment toward you without saying anything, he could feel someone watching him again. He checked the living room. You were nowhere to be seen. Hm.

No need to worry, he supposed, when you popped up ten minutes later to compliment your sister on the color scheme of her bathroom. Elizabeth seemed no more thrilled about this than about your insistence that she take you on a tour of the rest of the home. Her husband hovering nervously in the doorway, Q could only helplessly stammer as you pushed your new niece into his arms. And there he stood, terrified, trying not to kill a helpless infant while her parents and aunt were out traipsing through the garden.

The creeping feeling came upon Q again. This time, he did not react. The last thing he wanted was to injure the tiny being in his arms. All he did was carefully look up–just in time to see you watching him through the screen door. Your head whipped away just as quickly, but he knew he had you then. Actually, it was something of a relief. No one sinister was watching his every move. Just someone rather annoying.

Q played along, long enough to hand the baby back to her mother and get to the car and pick up your art supplies. It was only on the way back to London while you hummed along with the movie soundtrack on the CD you’d brought that he decided to bring it up at all:

“[Name]. You’ve been watching me all day, haven’t you?”

He saw you peeking bashfully up at him through your hair. That was answer enough, but he had to admit that he got some enjoyment out of glancing at you every so often, waiting silently for an answer. When it did, it was careful: “Why would you ask that?”

“I work for a spy agency. I think I can tell when someone is spying on me. You’ve been watching me since I got up this morning.”

Your lips mashed together into a thin, pale line. Q expected you to lie. It seemed you were in that sort of mood, but then: “Well, how am I supposed to help it?” you burst out. “You’re really attractive, Alton! Do you even know when the last time I got laid was?”

“Are you kidding me?” Q spluttered. All of this, his entire day of paranoia, was because of your libido acting out of sorts? Of course. How had he gotten himself in this sort of situation again? Some disastrous date several years ago now. If only he could go back in time and warn his younger self of the danger lurking in his future.

“Two months ago, if you aren’t counting,” you informed him, with absolutely no trace of the mortification he so sharply felt himself, “and no, I’m not kidding.”

He groaned. Had he not been driving and worried enough already of twisting the vehicle around a tree, he might have pressed his head to the steering wheel. Thinking back on it, he knew that you weren’t wrong, but really, who kept track of these sorts of things other than his girlfriend?

Apparently reading his mind, you first blew your cheeks out at him again, then proceeded to scowl. “If you’d just do me every few weeks, then I wouldn’t have to resort to staring at you when you’re doing something sexy and letting my imagination do the rest!”

Quite frankly, that was too much information. “What have I done today that’s supposed to be sexy?” he protested.

“Everything!”

So it was to be one of those kinds of days. Q checked the dashboard clock. There was still some time before the two of you would reach the city, and he preferred to spend the rest of the ride thinking quietly than having you continue to stare at him while he drove along. He took a deep breath. “If I agree to sleep with you tonight, will you quit stalking me?”

Much to Q’s relief, you smiled. “Deal.”

And that was that, thankfully. Only a few minutes later, he heard your soft snores start up. Probably you were simply resting up for the night he had promised you–but Q couldn’t stop himself wishing, just a little, that you would let him carry you up to the flat and then spend the rest of the evening asleep. It had been a long, stressful, embarrassing day.


	45. Too Early for This

**Rule #45: Girls need to hear how you feel about them often. Tell her now.**

“Alton. Hey. Hey. Alton.”

“Mm…gernugah.”

“Alton!”

This last exclamation was accompanied by a pinch. It might have been tiny, but it definitely stung, and suddenly Q was back in the present, back in reality, back on the bed in his dark flat with the clock on the bedside table showing: “3:00. In the morning. [Name], what do you want at 3:00 in the morning?”

In answer, he got only a shove. Again, it wasn’t hard, but he found himself letting out a dramatic groan anyway. Why the hell were you waking him up well before the crack of dawn? Just because _you_ would sleep in past 11:00 didn’t mean that he was about to! He was still tired out from the previous day’s trip, whether or not he could rely on his internal clock to wake him exactly at 6:00.

“You complete arse, Alton!” you cried when he did nothing but blink wildly up at you. “You _said_ you’d sleep with me tonight.”

“Weren’t we asleep?”

“That’s not what I meant!”

Still drowsy, Q could practically feel his brain putting off smoke as it tried to comprehend the absolute gibberish spouting from your mouth. It was 3:00 and he was in his pajamas in bed. You were on the bed, still in your clothes from the long day before. Squinting up at your blurred shadow, Q groped for his glasses on the nearby table. Only when he slipped them on did he see how deeply you were scowling. “What _did_ you mean, then?” he asked groggily. “So we can get this nonsense over with and I can go back to bed.”

“Nonsense!” For once, Q found himself almost convinced that you might actually hit him. The threat had always been in good fun, as far as he had understood–although perhaps that was because he always found the subject of the argument so ridiculous that of course you must have been kidding about getting physical, too. Obviously you didn’t hit him that time, either, but that didn’t mean you didn’t look seriously tempted. “It is not nonsense to want to have sex with you!”

Q disagreed. Not that having sex with you was the worst thing in the world, but this distinct drive you had for him was quite exhausting. Especially in the early morning hours when he had not the foggiest idea of where this was coming from. “[Name],” he said, voice still somewhat slurred, “could you _please_ explain what on god’s green earth you are _talking_ about?”

“This afternoon, you said that you’d sleep with me tonight if I agreed to stop stalking you. And here I wake up and you’re asleep. Did you just carry me up here from the car?”

He had to think about that for a minute. What had happened once the two of you had got home? “Yes,” Q answered finally. Because, he recalled, waking you up would have reminded you that he had promised to have sex with you this evening and, “Oh. I see what you mean.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” you snapped.

“[Name].” Q couldn’t entirely help whining, late as it was. “I’m sorry, all right? But I am too tired to roll around with you on the sheets right now.”

He was met with eerie silence. Then: “You’re _always_ too tired to roll around on the sheets.”

“That is not the case.”

“You’re too tired, you’re too busy, you don’t feel like it. What is it? Is it _me_?”

Q let out a sigh. Even with his glasses on, he could barely see the ceiling that he stared at. Had he known that this would be how his night would go if he forewent sex and tried to sneak in a few hours of sleep in its stead, he would have just gone ahead and done the deed. At least then you would have been too tired to pester him this early in the morning. He was just setting up to feel quite sorry for himself when he heard–well, he couldn’t quite discern what he was hearing. Not crying _exactly_ , but something soft and hushed. You were muttering to yourself, he realized, and had rolled over onto your side to prevent his hearing properly. Q struggled into a seated position to listen. Heaven knew if _he_ wasn’t getting any sleep that night, you weren’t either.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“[Name].”

Insisting on pestering you, apparently, was a mistake. You rolled right over and shot him a glare that Bond probably would have applauded. “I _said_ I just don’t get it! I’m cute, aren’t I? When we were in school, people used to tell me I was too cute to be going after a geek like you.”

“Lovely,” said Q.

You closed your eyes. “I guess they were wrong.”

That Q must have heard wrong. Either that, or he had entered some bizarre fever dream. He was tempted to turn back over and just pretend the whole event hadn’t happened, but he was well aware of what would arrive in the morning if he did. Another month of not being on speaking terms with the one person he lived with did not sound appealing just then. He sighed, pushing his hair off his forehead. “What were they wrong about, [Name]?” He didn't sound too interested even to his own ears, but it seemed to be enough for you.

“About me being too cute. You never want to sleep with me. You’d sleep with me if I was cute.”

Really? _Really_? _This_ was the time you chose to have this conversation? This couldn’t have waited until breakfast? “Whether or not you’re cute isn’t the problem. I don’t want sex,” he said, unable to entirely keep himself from sounding cross. “Every once and awhile is fine, but I don’t see why you need to have it every other week.”

“Every other week?” you burst out. “Al, it’s been _two months_! It’s pretty obvious you’re not attracted to me.”

For all the vehemence with which you’d began the argument, he could hear it draining away as you finished your last sentence. Silence again. And again another soft sound, only this time, it was most definitely tears. Good lord, Q wanted to go back to bed. How best to end this quickly? His weary brain took some time to come up with a response, and by then you had stopped crying. Perhaps he could just pretend this whole night hadn’t happened. If only you were unconscious. Q could hope.

“[Name]?” he said. “Are you asleep?”

“No.” You sounded miserable. Q sighed again. He was going to have to go through this after all, then.

“You are,” he began awkwardly, “the _only_ woman I’ve ever even _slightly_ desired carnal relations with. Does that make you feel better?”

“No.”

“Why not?” he demanded.

“Because I don’t believe you.”

Q groaned. He knew where this was going: where this always went. It was his own fault, really. If he had just woke you up when he’d had the opportunity, both of you would be snoring at this moment. “I’ll go get a condom,” he said dully as he started to get out of bed–only to feel the bed shift under your weight, too, as you leaned forward to grab his shoulder.

“No," you said. "Not tonight. Are you _crazy_? It’s 4:00 in the morning.”

“Wha–”

“We can do each other in the afternoon. Goodnight!” With that, you swooped back down into your pillow. Q could only stare. What had just happened? Was he in trouble or not? You were no longer awake to answer him, leaving him with nothing else to do besides settle back down and think one word to himself: _‘Women.’_ How Bond could handle them day in and day out was beyond Q, and he fell asleep quite thankful that he only regularly had to deal with one.


	46. #Blessed

**Rule #46: A girl wants to be the best thing that ever happened to you—and for you to recognize this yourself and tell her.**

Far be it from Q to take a pessimistic view of his life. He had the job he’d dreamed of since high school. His flat was spacious and well-situated. Enough money was deposited into his bank account each month that he didn’t have to worry about affording rent. On top of all that, he—nerd that he was—(apparently) had a girlfriend way, _way_ out of his league. Even _he_ had to confess he was exceptionally well off. His mug of tea ought to have been half-full, but all he could see that evening were cold, tasteless dregs.

He knew he was being foolish. Everyone experienced bad days from time to time. Any day he was not shot at, or that MI6 was not blown to pieces, or that some world-ending computer virus didn’t get past his firewall because a field agent fell once more for an email screaming “click here to see your £427716.00 deposit!” ought to have been a good day in his book. None of those had happened that day either. Yet, as he stepped outside with a quiet “goodnight” to those he passed on his way to the door, he felt that that day had been his worst with British Intelligence so far, in what was already a storied career of bad days.

Only by chance did he catch the raucous laughter that burst from a group of men further along his route home. One turned his head to steal a look at Q trundling along in their wake. Unfortunately that was the face he had least wanted to see. He recognized him: the same agent that had been harassing him throughout the day.

At once, the idea of taking the tube left a displeasing taste in Q’s mouth. The last thing he wanted was to listen to his coworkers snicker at him all the way home. Walking would add another thirty minutes to this already overlong Tuesday, but so much the better. Perhaps by the time he got home, he would be in a better mood.

Things did not look promising as he set out, however. Scowling, he crossed the first street with his hands wrapped tightly around the strap of his shoulder bag. They continued to tighten the closer he drew to the flat. Q simply couldn’t get his mind off the myriad of indignities he had been forced to suffer for the past nine hours. 

Firstly, the agent from before, 003. He’d only just got back from a lengthy undercover assignment in Mexico. The first thing he’d said to Q, whom he had never met before? “Ah, so _you’re_ the new Quartermaster! I trust by now 007 has broken you in. You’ve had enough time to settle into the position and outgrown mindlessly connecting foreign computers to our network, I assume?” Just when he thought MI6 as a whole had moved on from that debacle, now it was all anyone could talk about. Again.

Secondly, the same agent happened to pick up an entirely new weapon from the rack when he joined Bond at the shooting range. Did the weapon work properly, as Q expected his work to do at such a late sage of development? Hardly. The damn thing exploded, leading to 003 spending considerable time in what only generously could be called the building’s nurse’s office.

As if those two things alone were not enough, M called Q into his office to talk about his supposedly lowering standards for his own work! Q said something foolish in a fit of pique over lunch with Miss Moneypenny, leading to their second spat in as many months. By the time Bond himself came around to comment on matters, Q had been in enough of a temper to snap at _him_ , too. M banned Q from working on any new projects—including Bond’s upcoming trip to Prague—until the malfunctioning weapon was put right, and, seeing as it had _blown up_ , he was facing several weeks, if not months, of starting over from scratch.

“Maybe I should simply turn my resignation in tomorrow,” he grumbled as his building came into view. No one at MI6 liked him; he clearly couldn’t do his job properly; and until 003 was sent off to a new distant corner of the planet, Q would have to walk home among the cigarette smoke and car exhaust. New employment would at least solve the last problem, provided he didn't make any enemies with similar shifts there as well.

He opened the front door—you’d left it unlocked again—unable to rearrange his expression into something that had a lesser chance of hurting your feelings. Apparently his concern over this was unwarranted, though. You were not there to greet him. Quite a lot of banging from the kitchen did so instead. You were cooking something. Pancakes, by the smell of it. Probably you hadn’t even realized Q was home.

“Mom, we’ve been _over_ this,” you said loudly. A pause followed, leading Q to believe you must have been on the phone. “Because I _like_ it here.”

Yes, it must have been your weekly phone call with your mother. After you’d skipped several family dinners over annoyance with their behavior at the art gallery, she had taken to calling the landline repeatedly until either you or Q finally picked up. You rarely sounded so cross when speaking with other people, anyway. He shrugged out of his jacket just in time to hear you slam one cooking utensil or another onto the counter.

“Well that ought to be enough! It’s enough for me, and in case you haven’t notice, I’m not exactly relying on you for support!”

You sudden shout caused him to jump. The jacket slid from his fingers and to the floor, rather than onto the coat rack he’d been aiming for. Despite himself, a sound of annoyance escaped him. Could nothing go right anymore? You must have heard the noise, because the shouting stopped.

“Alton?” you called. He didn’t answer, as he was too busy picking his expensive piece of clothing off the ground. Of course, if he quit his current position, he wouldn’t be able to afford things like it anymore. But was that really worth continuing to be laughed at day in and day out? “Alton? You okay?’

Turning on the spot, he found you standing in the entrance to the kitchen. You had the phone pressed to your chest, but he absolutely was not going to start whining about his day when there was even the slightest chance for your mother to eavesdrop. Something about the look on his face must have said as much, because without looking away from him, you lifted the phone to your mouth to say, “Mom? I’ve gotta go. Talk to you next week. Bye!”

A faint beep issued from the phone as you twisted around the corner to set the phone on its dock. You’d hung up, that much was clear. Still Q could not bring himself to complain. He didn’t have to. Before he could so much as attempt to explain why he looked so upset, you closed the gap between you both to a press a warm hand to his cheek.

“Bad day?’ you asked. 

His eyes roved momentarily around your face. Then at last, he heaved a sigh, and allowed himself to rest his forehead against your shoulder. “Not so bad,” he said, “knowing you’re here waiting for me.”

Because, really, how could Q complain? You’d been with him through countless blunders and stupid statements. As far as he knew, you were the only you on Earth—and you belonged to him. As far as he was concerned just then, he was the luckiest man in the world.


End file.
